Winter Is Here
by LadySmallwood08
Summary: Jon and Sansa have taken back Winterfell. Arya is alone. Bran has lost much. Dany means to achieve her ends, by whatever means; be it war, dragons, or marriage... Rated High T, will go up with future chapters. Platonic!Jon/Sansa. Continuation of S6 with some book elements (i.e., Acorn Hall).
1. Chapter 1

_Winter Is Here_

PROLOGUE; Jon

 _The King in the North._

Their cries still echoed in his ears even after night had fallen. Their raised swords still glinted in his eyes, dim in the candlelight, thrust forward to him: _our swords are yours. Our life is yours. The north belongs to you, Jon Snow._

Never before had anyone pledged their lives to him. Never before had he been responsible for so many. And the worst of it was, he had no idea how to handle any of it. Robb had been trained for this; Robb had been taught by their father. This was all meant for him. Wintefell, the north, even Sansa. Jon felt like an outsider in his own home.

But it was his home, still. His room was as he had left it; walls bare save for the tapestry of a wolf that hung by his bedside. Father had said that his mother had made it. Jon had forgotten its existence, having thought it was unsuited for the Night's Watch it had been driven from his mind by other things. But here it was, still, after all these years. Frayed and bleached by the sun, but there all the same.

His bed was covered in the same furs that it had been. His dresser and trunk were empty, Rickon having probably taken his things as Jon had told Tyrion to allow. The chair in the corner of the room creaked, still. His windows were still scratched and thick. The door still had a crudely carved J in the bottom left corner.

All the same, and yet so foreign it made his head spin.

The floorboards creaked from behind Jon. He did not bother to turn, because by now he had grown used to the sound of her light footfalls. "Will it be warm enough?" She asked him, voice oddly tremulous.

"I didn't want this," he said quietly, not in answer to her question but in answer to his own unspoken one; _d_ _o you deserve your fate?_

"You can have the Lord's chambers if you want," Sansa offered.

Jon almost smiled. Almost. It was hard not to, which surprised him because for years he had not smiled unless it was Sam or Edd, but here was this sister of his, who had hated him for so long, and at present she was the only one capable of making him feel happiness.

"That's not what I meant," he told her, turning half-way and leaning against the doorframe. "I mean... All of it. I'm no King, Sansa. I don't know the first thing about ruling anything."

Sansa did smile, faintly. She took a step forward, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. "Nor does any good King," she said. "You are Ned Stark's son. Lyanna was right. His blood runs through your veins—"

"As it does your own," Jon countered. "And Catelyn Tully's does, as well. Don't you think a highborn girl, with two noble parents born within these very castle walls is more suited for the job?"

She outright laughed at that, though Jon didn't know why. It was a bitter sound. Then she met his eyes and he saw that they were like ice; blue and cold, thawed only for him. "You're right," she said. "But you always miss the most obvious point." She paused, tilting her head in a way that reminded him of Arya so suddenly his heart stopped. "A highborn _girl_ , Jon. The northern lords won't rally behind a woman. They barely stood behind Robb — a greenboy before the war. But you..." She bit her lip. "You fought for Winterfell. You deserve this."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," he pointed out, put off by the thought. If even his own sister did not support his claim — what little of it there was — then who truly would? And how could he get by without her? Suddenly he stood straight and faced her. "Sansa, I need you. I can't rule the north without your help. And if... If you don't think I should be King — not really — I don't know if I'll make it or not."

She took his hand, lacing their gloves fingers together. "You're my brother," she said. "True born or not. And you know the north — maybe better than I do after so long. But I know our enemies. What worries me is... Father died at the hands of the Lannisters. You're so focused on the Night's King—"

"He's the true threat, Sansa—"

"No, I know that, I know," her reply was rushed and hurried. "But the northerners will want vengeance. Walder Frey will lives, Cersei still lives — the killers of our family live and breathe while we waste away in winter. And I know that... That there are worse things. But you have to promise me that Father and Mother and Robb will be avenged."

He took a moment, watching her earnest face, and let her words sink in. "They will not be forgotten," he promised her.

She visibly relaxed. "Thank you," she said, and then smiled mischievously, "Your Grace."

Jon rolled his eyes. "'My lord' was bad enough," he muttered.

Sansa laughed. "You're going to be a great King," she said. He could tell that she meant it from her face to her hand tightening around his own.

"How do you know?"

Her eyes flickered to the window, where snow was falling heavily and white. "Father never wanted to be Lord," she said. "He never thought he would be. Brandon was heir to Winterfell, not him. I think... I think it's those that have responsibilities like these thrust upon them that thrive the most, because they have to go further in order to justify what they were given. Or they feel like they do, anyway."

Jon nodded thoughtfully. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently. "Goodnight, Sansa."

Once withdrawn to his chambers with the door bolted shut, he stripped down to his small clothes and crawled into bed. His muscles were sore and aching, and his back painfully settled against the mattress.

The wooden canopy above his bed was scratched from when Robb and he had fought with tourney swords as children, hacking wildly with no real training, trying to get a blow in.

Jon pulled the furs around him and closed his eyes. Immediately fire danced across his eyelids, as it did whenever he slept. Fire was all he had seen in the Beyond. Not Robb, or Father, or even Arya, but orange flames dancing against a red sky, almost taunting him.

Then darkness swallowed him.

 _Promise me, Ned..._

 _"Jon."_

 _Her voice rang out, though the space was open and crowded with trees. It was summer, he realised, by the lack of snow and ice. The grass was green and the spring was no longer frozen. The woman, whom Jon did not recognise, was sitting before the Heart Tree with her cloak spread about her like a pool of dark shadow. She was smiling though her tears, but Jon did not know why she was crying._

 _At her side was a massive direwolf, with a pelt of grey fur and eyes as blue as that of a White Walker's. The beast was clearly tame; curled around her waist as she ran her pale fingers through its shaggy coat._

 _"Jon," she said again. The sound of his name on her lips jolted him out of his shock. He faced her, though the hot springs were between them. This woman knew him but he did not know her. "Jon Snow," she whispered, and he thought that this might be his mother._

 _But she could not be; she looked too much like a Stark. His mother had most likely been some tavern wench._

 _All of the sudden she laughed. "Oh, a tavern wench was not enough to make my dear brother forget his honour," she said, with the thick accent of a northerner and a grin to match._

 _'Dear brother', she had said. "You're Lyanna Stark."_

 _It was no question. There was no doubt in his mind. So often had Arya been compared to his Father's sister, and now he saw that it was the truth. "Aye," she said, scooting a little closer. "And you are Jon Snow."_

 _"I'm sorry you died," he told her, feeling as though all of the pressures of propriety and expectations had been lifted from him. He could talk freely with this woman, though as to why he felt that way he was unsure. "I died too, a while ago. But I came back."_

 _"For your family," she said sadly, staring down at her lap. "That's why we've done a lot of things, you and I. But coming back from death? I wish I had had the strength."_

 _"But Father said—"_

 _"That I was a brave fighter?" Lyanna finished. "Aye, it's the truth. But that was before..."_

 _"Jon!"_

 _Her voice trailed away and with her went the godswood. Jon was jerked away from his surroundings into something different; the courtyard of Winterfell. He felt smaller, shorter. And there was Robb, staring at him expectantly in a child's body with the eyes of a man grown. "Jon, who are you going to be?"_

 _Jon looked down at himself; tattered leathers, old boots, and a wooden sword. "A bastard," he said firmly. His voice was younger._

 _"No," said Robb. "We're playing, remember? You have to be something different. I'm going to be a knight."_

 _"But knights are stupid!" said Rickon, perched on the wooden fence by the pen. "Be something better!"_

 _"A King!" Robb said. "I'll be one of the winter kings!" As he spoke, blood began to seep from his stomach. It dropped onto the ground and formed a puddle around his brother's feet, but Robb did not seem to notice. He smiled, and then the courtyard was gone and they were standing together in the middle of a dining hall, unrecognisable to Jon. "Who will you be, brother?" He said, bleeding and older._

 _Jon's head felt heavy. He reached up, wooden sword gone and replaced with Longclaw, and found that there was a crown there. "I can't be King," he said firmly, angry at his foolish brother for dying. He rushed to him, he had to stop it, selfish reasons or no. "Robb, you're bleeding!"_

 _He reached out to help, but then Robb was gone._

 _"Who will you be?"_

 _Jon turned. There was Father, standing in the snow, resting against the ancestral sword of their house; Ice. "Who will you be, Jon?"_

 _"Father," Jon said, choking back tears. "You're dead..."_

 _"Jon," Father smiled, as though he had not spoken. "You are my blood." He nodded as though satisfied with his own words._

 _"You promised the next time we saw each other we would talk about my Mother," Jon found himself saying, angry at his Father for dying without telling him the truth. Angry at the Lannisters for talking his Father away from him._

 _He felt four-and-ten again, standing with his Father in the depths of the crypts of Winterfell, and as he thought it somehow it came to be. Darkness surrounded them both but for the light of a torch on a sconce. The effigy of Lyanna stood in front of them. Father and Jon stared at her stone hands, which held a handful of blue winter roses. "You are a song," said Father, touching her cheek._

 _"Who is the third head, friend?"_

 _Tyrion Lannister was standing on the edge of the Wall, grinning up at Jon with dark eyes. "Tyrion?"_

 _"Not truly," said the dwarf, and so they walked together. "The dragon has three heads, remember that."_

 _Jon shook his head. "If you were truly my friend, why did you not save my sister? Why did you not help Sansa more than you did?"_

 _"How could I, without getting her killed?" He sounded regretful._

 _"You could have sent her to me sooner," Jon countered._

 _Tyrion smiled impishly. "She is not a dragon. She is a wolf."_

 _"So am I."_

 _Then Tyrion dipped back against the ice ledge and fell. Jon madly reached out to try and catch him, but his hand caught nothing. There was nothing falling, only him._

 _Diving through the air, through the darkness, through the ash. There was blood everywhere. A bed of blood; a river of blood. An axe in his chest. His silver hair was stained with red, and there were rubies all around him. "If only you could see how foolish I was," he said. "If only you knew how much I would have loved you."_

 _Then Maester Aemon was looking down on him, dressed in black and as scrawny as ever. "Get up, Jaehaerys."_

 _What?_

 _"Get up." He held out a pale white hand. Jon started to shake, the river was so cold. "Up, Jaehaerys, up."_

"Jon!"

He shot up in his bed, as quick as lightning, and looked madly to the door. Sansa stood there, holding a lantern. The candle was half-way gone but still he could see her pale, frightened face. Dream forgotten, he frowned. "Are you alright?"

"Am I?!" She demanded, rushing over to him and sitting at his bedside. The mattress dipped. "Jon, you were shaking."

He blinked, and then pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to recall the last vestiges of the dream before they faded away. But most were gone, leaving only the impression of warmth and sadness. "I'm sorry," he told his sister, regretful that he had worried her.

She cupped his cheek. There was a line between her eyebrows which meant that she was concerned. Her hand was cold against his flushed face. His tunic was soaked in sweat. "Are you going to be alright? You feel warm..."

He shook his head to clear it. "I'm fine," he said. Suddenly it occurred to him that it was still the dead of night, and here she was. "Did you need something?" He asked, careful not to sound impatient.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "My room smells like Mother."

He probably shouldn't have laughed, but he did. Soon she was laughing with him, woes dissipated. "Lady Catelyn always did have a distinctive smell," he jested, feeling lighter than he knew he should have.

Sansa huffed, smiling. "I just mean... It's like she's almost there. Like the gods are teasing me. Every time I close my eyes I think she might be there when I wake up."

"The gods can be cruel," he said, laughter forgotten. "Where will you sleep?"

"Not my old room," she said quickly. "And I can't sleep in any of the others..." She drew in a sharp breath, eyes shining with unshed tears. Jon watched as she dipped her head in shame.

"Hey," he took her hand. "It's alright. You can sleep here." He kissed her brow as he had done before and she nodded, wiping her cheek. "You don't need to hide your tears, Sansa. We've lost so much... It's not like I don't understand."

He moved over so that she could sit beside him and watched as she buried herself under his furs, much like a child again. He recalled the days when she had begged him to sneak her lemon cakes from the kitchens, so small and innocent, and after they would share the treat while he told her stories of brave knights and worse kings. But those days were long gone, buried behind years of 'bastard' and 'half-brother.'

Arya had never called him either.

Jon hated himself for comparing the two, but it was hard not to when they were so different. Sansa had always been gentle and sweet, and now she was like tempered steel. Arya... Arya had been wild and bold and brave. What was she like now, he wondered? Was she still alive?

Sansa pulled him out of unsaid fears by resting her head on his shoulder. "Are you tired?" He asked her.

"No," she said, to his surprise. And then, after a moment, she sighed. "They're never going to come back."

"Who?"

"Any of them," Sansa replied bitterly. "Bran or Arya, or anyone else we knew. They're all dead."

Jon closed his eyes. "No," he said. "I won't believe that." He knew that she didn't, either. She was just trying to save herself the pain.

Sansa pulled the covers up to her chin. "I'm not asking you to," she said.

"If they're alive, they'll come," Jon told her. "We took back the North. They have a home to return to. They'll hear soon enough."

Sansa looked up at him. For a moment, she seemed small and young; her own age, not like the impenetrable, stubborn lady she had been these past few months. He missed Sansa as she had been before; carefree and trusting. And it hurt him deeply that she had gone through anything to change that nature.

He realised then that he would have done anything to make her pain lessen, even if it meant her calling him 'bastard' once more.

"The wolves will come again," Sansa whispered, settling into the crook of his neck. Ghost jumped up on the bed from where he had been laying by the window and curled up between them, wagging his tail.

Jon smiled, and fell back to sleep.

By the time the sun had risen, Jon had been awake for an hour. He had written a letter to Edd for the Wall, with a promise of more men as soon as he could manage. A raven had come from the immovable Lord Howland Reed, with kind words of Jon's father and a promise to remain loyal. He had also claimed to have reinforced guards along the edge of the Neck, close to the Twins.

Sansa lay under the furs, still; bundled up in a ball. Her face was white, and hair near like fire when the sun hit it. He woke her soon, and she demanded to read the letter from Lord Reed.

"This is good," she said, sitting on the trunk at the end of his bed. "This means that we have almost the whole of the North."

Jon nodded. "Aye," was all he said.

Sansa smiled thinly, curling the paper round her fingers. "He was Father's friend," she said quietly. "If there's one House in the North I think we can trust to be loyal bannermen, it's the Reeds."

Jon nodded. He leaned up against the stone wall of his room, closest to the window. He had cracked it open just a touch so that the winds of winter were playing across each of their faces. Outside, all was covered in a blanket of white; the courtyard, the trees — stretching for as far as he could see.

"Do you think he will come to Winterfell?"

Jon looked back at Sansa. "Lord Reed?"

She nodded, staring down at the scratchy handwriting. "He hasn't left Greywater Watch since Robert's Rebellion," she reminded him. "But how will we know if he's truly loyal?"

Jon shifted his footing. "Father once told me that if anything ever happened, to him or Winterfell, I was to go to Greywater Watch and seek out Lord Reed; he said that he would help me." Jon paused. "I don't think that Father would say something like that unless he was absolutely sure."

"Probably not," agreed Sansa. "What about all of the other houses? They call you King, but they didn't fight for us."

"And they regret that," Jon said, suddenly fierce. She blinked at his tone and straightened. Jon, weary, leaned back once more. "They are loyal, as you said. But they were afraid, Sansa; afraid of losing a war they had already lost."

"They should've had more courage than that," she shot back. "They fought for Robb. Robb died. But even after he was gone, there was still Bran, still Rickon."

Jon closed his eyes, head throbbing. "Aye, but what could two small boys have done? Bran, a cripple. Do you think we would have won any war with him at the head of our army?"

Sansa set the letter down on the old bedside table and adjusted his blankets around her shoulders. "No," she said after a few moments, "but nonetheless, there's still so much to be done. Not only do we have the Night's King to worry about, but the Riverlands are still undefended. Those are Mother's lands. If I'm to do right as her daughter, I must help them."

Jon beamed with pride. She noticed, flushed, and smiled tentatively back. "You're going to be an excellent Lady of Winterfell."

"Does that mean you intend to leave?" Sansa demanded, sounding almost afraid. "Because... Winterfell is the seat of the North. I don't think you should be going anywhere just yet. Not until we've at least formed some sort of a strategy—"

"I'm not leaving," Jon assured her, and she stopped her pacing to stare at him. "I'll stay as long as you'll have me."

"I'd have you until your bones rest in the crypt," she replied promptly. And then she rushed across the room and enveloped him in a hug. He held her as she trembled, and wiped away her tears as soon as they fell. "I meant what I said; you're my brother. You're a Stark and this is your _home_."

 **AN: Right, that's a wrap on the prologue of Winter is Here, of which I have many chapters written, already. The rating is probably going to go up, but we'll see.**


	2. Chapter 2

ONE; Daenerys

Their journey had been long, and yet they were not even halfway across the Narrow Sea, Varys had told her. They had travelled from the Bay of Dragons to Volantis, and then to Lys. She had already grown used to the feeling of being aboard a ship; sickness was not a problem. Impatience, on the other hand, was.

Dany had taken to pacing the deck of the ship, watching her children fly above her. She had the small assurance at least that they were moving, going somewhere. For the first time in her life, Dany was actually taking steps to gain back what had been stolen from her.

She loved it. She loved the feeling of sea spray splashing her cheeks. She loved watching the waves lap against the prow of the ship. She loved playing her fingers over the golden scales of the dragon figurehead.

But none of this was making anything go by faster.

Today the sky was dark. It had occurred to her that morning that she had never seen a dark sky. She had never seen grey clouds — or really clouds at all. When it rained that morning, she at first had thought that it had been the sea. But the water came from above.

 _Daenerys Stormborn_ , she was called. And yet she had never seen a storm.

Dany wrapped her hands around the wooden rail of the ship. Below she could see the dark waters lapping against the hull. It was a peaceful sight.

Tyrion was at her side soon enough. He always seemed to be there, in the background, prepared to offer advice or give council. Her Hand. She trusted him. That had been a surprising revelation, and one that had pleased her. If she could trust a Lannister, and a Greyjoy, who said she could not trust others?

Though, her allies, such as the Tyrells and the Martells, had fought for her father. They had only bowed to the Usurper because they had no other choice; Rhaegar had died, Viserys and she were across the Narrow Sea, and Aerys had been stabbed in the back by Tyrion's brother.

But if her Hand told her true, her father had deserved it; he had killed innocents, planned to destroy cities, had burned people while they lived and laughed. _Burn them all_ , Tyrion had said. She thought, once, that perhaps Jamie Lannister was only putting Aerys out of his misery; like a dying horse.

"We nearing on halfway across, Your Grace," Tyrion told her quietly.

Dany nodded, though she had already guessed as much. "Is there any word?"

"A raven reached us from Ellaria Sand," Tyrion said. From the sleeve of his coat he pulled a bound scroll, seal broken. Probably the reason he had sought her out. Dany took it gingerly and read it, her eyes scrolling over every word three times before she absorbed the message.

"Your sister has claimed the crown?!" She demanded of Tyrion, rounding on him as though it was his fault. She knew that it wasn't, but she had no other way to take out her anger.

Tyrion held up his hands diplomatically. Immediately, ashamed, she took a step back and calmed herself. "I know," he said. "The thought of Cersei sitting on the Iron Throne makes me want to shit myself, just as much as you."

Dany blinked. Unamused, she looked back to the letter. "It says that the North has declared independence," she read. It gave no reason as to why, so she tried to form her own. "Against Cersei?"

"Probably," Tyrion agreed. A shadow of something — perhaps happiness — crossed his features. It was the first time Dany had seen it. "You must keep in mind, Your Grace, that the northerners always remember the wrongs inflicted upon them. My nephew ordered the execution of Lord Eddard Stark—"

"Why?" She found herself asking, though still intrigued by the fierceness of these northerners. She had never gotten a reason as to why Lord Stark was executed. He had been one of the Usurper's dogs, had he not? Fighting at his side against her brother?

Tyrion shifted on his feet. "Ah, well, that's a complicated story..."

"Tell it to me, then," she ordered, raising a brow.

Tyrion nodded, and so they began to walk along the starboard side. "Lord Stark was named Hand of the King after the death of Jon Arryn, you do know this?" He looked at her and she raised her chin in affirmation. "Well, to go further back, Ned Stark was practically brought up by Jon Arryn. He was fostered at the Eyrie, away from his own family. Robert Baratheon was as well."

Tyrion paused, lacing his fingers together. "When Lyanna Stark was... When she departed with your brother, Brandon Stark went south to try to convince Aerys to free her for his family; to get her back. However, Brandon was never known for being diplomatic. He drew his sword, enraged at the supposed kidnapping of his sister, and demanded that Aerys 'come out and die'. He was captured and imprisoned, gauging his father to ride south in haste to rescue him."

Dany blinked. She had always assumed that the Stark men had done something... Worthy of their punishment. Something a little more than a threat and live steel on the part of a distraught brother. Two grieving men had come to her father. "And he burnt them alive."

"Rickard, yes. A trial by combat was demanded. Your father chose fire as his weapon. As Brandon's father burned, he himself struggled to save him; Brandon had been bound with a sword that he could not reach put before him. He strangled himself to death," said Tyrion, wincing a little. "And then Rhaenys and Aegon were killed along with Elia Martell. Rhaegar was defeated... And all the while Ned Stark was not even by Robert's side. He lifted the siege of the Stormlands. He also found his sister, they say, and brought her back north."

It must have been awful, Dany thought, to have had to spend so much time away from your family but still to have loved them, and then to have found your sister dying. From a fever, they said. Not only that, but to have the mantle of Lord Stark thrust upon the second son, having never expected it to be you...

Tyrion went on. "Ned Stark travelled to the Red Keep after your father was killed. He found Jamie on the Iron Throne, to his dismay, as my brother told me. Then the bodies of your niece and nephew were dragged out. Jamie said that Ned Stark was disgusted with the Mountain for what he did to them. He said that Ned and Robert fought about it, that Lord Stark said it wasn't right. Robert called it justice."

Dany frowned. "Even after the death of his own sister?"

"Well, she died of her own causes," Tyrion reminded her. "And Lord Stark had no reason to bear the Targaryen babes ill will. He returned north and only came back to the Red Keep to become Hand."

"Which was around the time I married Drogo," she said slowly, staring out at the grey skyline.

Tyrion made a little grunting sound. "When you became pregnant, Robert ordered for your execution as well as that of your unborn child," he told her. Dany stopped, wide eyed, remembering the wine merchant that had tried to poison her. Tyrion had not noticed, however. "Lord Stark was appalled. He resigned as Hand of the King that day, refusing to take part in the murder of innocents."

"He gave away all of that power, for me?" A man who had not even known her. A man who had spoken up for her and her baby against Robert Baratheon. He had done that?

Tyrion nodded. "You, your baby, and honour," he told her. She started to walk again. "Lord Stark was the most honourable man I have ever had the pleasure to know. He did only what was right. He could easily have let Robert kill you, but he did not."

"But my baby died anyway," she said. _And a bit of me died with him._

"And so did Ned Stark," said Tyrion. "The gods have their little ironies."

Dany sighed. "What of his children? How many did he have?"

"Five true-born and one bastard," Tyrion replied. _So much for honour_. And yet Tyrion spoke so highly of him. Perhaps the bastard had only been a mistake. "He raised his natural born son, Jon Snow, along with all of his others. Again, he did not what was easy but what needed to be done. What was best for his child."

"And this child? All of them?"

"Jon Snow joined the Night's Watch. I had the pleasure of accompanying him on his journey to the Wall, where we became... Friends. He is a good man, like his father. And now he is a King, according to that letter you carry."

She looked down at it. _The North has declared a new King; they have separated themselves once again from the Seven Kingdoms._ "I thought that men of the Night's Watch swore off all lands and titles?"

"That they do," Tyrion agreed. The had circled the ship twice and were now back where they had started. "Perhaps something happened. It must have; Jon Snow would never leave the Watch for nothing."

Dany looked down at him, brows raised, and trying not to smile. "You care for him," she told him.

"In the eyes of gods and men he is my good-brother," Tyrion replied promptly. "I married Sansa Stark on the orders of my father."

"But I thought the marriage was never consummated?" Dany asked, leaned forward a little.

"It wasn't," the dwarf agreed, sounding oddly happy. "But I still married her. I still accepted her as my wife and vowed to protect her. Even if she no longer sees me as her husband, I will still do all I can to keep her safe."

She was moved by his straightforward words; all of them were truth. "Alright," Dany said, "and what about the other four?"

Tyrion took a deep breath and looked at her. "Robb Stark started a war to get his father and sisters back before he died. The Young Wolf, they called him. He was murdered at a wedding under a violation of guest right."

A horrible way to go; just when you feel safe, surrounded by allies and kin...

"His mother, Lady Stark... Oh, I admired her. She was a fierce woman; strong and yet she was kind. She loved her children, you could see it in the way she looked at them. She would have done anything for them. She _did_ , actually, considering she died alongside her son."

"A shame," Dany said quietly. "This world needs good women."

"That it does," Tyrion agreed. He took a deep breath. "Arya has not been seen since she was eleven years of age. She would be about sixteen now, I think, if she was alive. No... Fifteen. But they say she either escaped or was murdered before her father in the scuffle at the Tower of the Hand."

"Eleven... An innocent girl. And it was your sister that did this?"

"My sister, my nephew, my father..." Tyrion sighed. "They all played a part, I'm sure."

"There are two more you have yet to tell me about."

Her Hand nodded. "Bran and Rickon. Both young boys. Since Theon Greyjoy apparently _didn't_ murder them, I'd wager they escaped somehow."

"From their own home?" Dany demanded, outraged at the thought.

"Theon used to be a shit," Tyrion said. "His sister must have found some way to tame him. But aside from him, Bran was a cripple. I doubt he could have gotten far without help."

"No," she agreed. Dany looked down at him, knowingly, and said, "You wish for me to make an alliance with the King in the North?"

Tyrion blinked and met her eyes. "I do," he said, seriously. "They are not your enemies, and they have already lost too much. It's their own strength that won them their home back. They did that themselves. You need brave people like that on your side, Daenerys Stormborn. And if you do at least make peace with them, it's one less land that might rise against you in defence. They fear for their home. They fear for their lives. They do not deserve to die like their uncle and grandfather."

"I would never burn—" but then she stopped, recalling Vaes Dothrak. She had already burnt men alive. It had been a grim business, but it had been necessary. Had her father felt the same way? She took a deep breath. _I will never be like him._ "I'll hear them out. Or, rather, you will."

He opened his mouth, eyes wide, but she held up a hand to stop him. "You know them. It is clear to me you admire them, as well. Who better to parlay with the Starks than someone who sees them in such a light?"

Even as she said it, fear crept up in her throat. _What if he abandons me for them?_ Just the thought of it made her shiver, but she suppressed all feeling and smiled instead. "I know you won't fail me."

"No, Your Grace," Tyrion said firmly, "but I worry... What does this mean?"

What does it mean? Independence, perhaps, for the North? Should they meet her terms, of course. But even still, what if they accepted her as Queen? Just as Dorne and the Reach had already done. Three of her seven... She felt warm at the concept.

And yet, Dany refused to keep anyone a slave. She wouldn't force them to bow. She was going to do everything she could to take Westeros in peace. She was going to do everything she could to make it prosper. If that meant allowing a few of the kingdoms to branch off, so be it. As long as they remained allies, as long as the viewed her as equal, she saw no problem with it.

Westeros would be free from chains, just as the Bay of Dragons now was.

She pushed off the rail and walked toward the middle of the ship. Tyrion followed. "We will discuss all of this at the council meeting later," Dany said. Varys, Tyrion, and her, as well as Grey Worm and Missandei.

She would have to smooth everything over, reaffirm her plans... It was going to be difficult.

Not easy, Tyrion had said. But right.

* * *

The map was held down on the table with wooden blocks so that it wouldn't furl up.

Dany stared at the north most section, at the castle marked 'Winterfell.' Dany had never been there; she did not know it's people or the lands. Tyrion, on the other hand, had. He would act as her messenger, going up through White Harbour all the way to the centre keep.

"And where will we dock?" Asked Grey Worm, studying the map. It occurred to her that this was probably the first time he had ever seen an outline of Westeros. Dany had grown up looking at them, dreaming about being a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, travelling wherever her heart desired. Soon, she would be there.

"We'll go around Dorne and dock near the Arbour," she told him, pointing to the spot. "That way, Cersei has no way of destroying our ships or attacking us as we approach."

Tyrion nodded. "Meanwhile, I will take one ship and go up through White Harbour," he outlined his route. "I will lay out our terms with Jon Snow, and hope he accepts."

"And what, exactly, would those terms be?" Inquired Lord Varys, smirking at his old friend. "Will you finally lay with the Stark girl? But no, where would that get you?" He circled the table, his face turning a little more serious. "These northerners have no reason to ally with you; you don't know if they truly desire revenge, nor do you know if they seek independence."

"Why else would they name Jon Snow King in the North?" Dany asked.

"Perhaps they seek only to break off from Cersei's reign," Varys suggested. "Or perhaps this Jon Snow had no choice in the matter. We know how spontaneous northerners can be."

"A ruthless lot," Tyrion commented, smiling. "It would be good to have them as allies."

"And how many men do they have?" Dany asked her Hand.

Tyrion frowned. "Robb Stark mustered twenty-thousand in the War of the Five Kings," he said slowly. "But those forces will have depleted. House Bolton had the second strongest army aside from the Starks. With the wolves back on top, the flayed men will be running south, most likely. Either that or they will surrender their forces to their King..." He took a moment, probably counting, and then said, "I would guess about twelve-thousand, more likely less than that."

Dany nodded. "Every one counts," she said firmly.

"And why will they fight for us?" Varys asked again, no longer jesting.

"I'm offering them revenge on the woman who tore apart their family," Dany said, standing straight and meeting the Eunuch's eyes. _The daughter of the man who tore apart mine._ She felt a sudden kinship with the Stark folk; built on tragedy and loss. She would help them, if she could. If they would have her. "Not only that, but I'm giving them a chance at freedom."

"Will you give them the Vale, as well?" Varys asked, stepping a bit closer. Not challenging, only so he could see the spot over her shoulder. "It would seem Lord Baelish has declared for the Starks."

"And I thought I was done with that man," Tyrion muttered.

"No, I doubt it, my friend," Varys sighed. "In fact I expect you'll be parlaying with him along with the Starks."

Dany frowned. "Perhaps one of my terms will be that they no longer will associate with Peytr Baelish," she said, already keen on the idea.

Tyrion's mouth twitched a bit. "Not a bad condition," he said. "And if Lord Baelish is holding them to some sort of an agreement that they have no wish of being a part of, we will free them of it; another reason for them to join us."

"Revenge, freedom, and justice," Dany said quietly. "And respect, should they deserve it."

Tyrion and Varys both nodded.

"What is to be our plan, my Queen?" Asked the Eunuch.

Dany studied the map. "We'll march through the Reach," she said. "Lady Olenna will make sure that Queen Cersei is unaware of the army. I will use my dragons to burn the Red Keep, but we will make sure the city itself is safe. However, should the Gold Cloaks raise their arms, we will have no choice but to fight them off."

Varys hummed. "A solid attack," he said. "Will you make sure the innocents are drawn out of the Keep before you burn it?"

"Of course," Dany said firmly, having already thought of it. "And should our alliance with the Starks be formed, we will then attack the Westerlands. The Vale might raise up arms..." They planned for hours, going over every possible wrinkle, running over what to do if this or that army rose up arms, or if someone slipped out of the alliance.

By the time they were done it was well into the night. Dany was exhausted. She bid the lords good night and made her way to her chamber, the ship rocking beneath her. They were coming. They were on their way.


	3. Chapter 3

TWO; Sansa

"So you're a King, now?"

Tormund Giantsbane stood across from them, leaning against the table with his fists out to support him. The man was tall and broad, with wide eyes and tangled red hair. He looked like someone Sansa would usually avoid. But she knew that, given how keen he was on Brienne, he truly was no threat to her.

Calmly she spooned her porridge around, watching Jon from the corner of her eye. He looked solemn, and stuck. She wished he would just be happy; this title was something well-deserved. Many kings had done less.

 _Like Joffery, for instance._

"Aye," said her brother, stubbornly looking away from the wildling.

Tormund's mouth twitched. He glanced at Sansa, who rolled her eyes, and then looked back to Jon. "Don't expect us to kneel, Jon Snow," he said.

Jon grinned. "I wouldn't ask it of you," he said.

Tormund nodded and went back to his seat at the lower tables, where a few of the wildlings were seated. Jon stared down at his plate of food. He was pale. Sansa reached out under the table and took his hand, as discreetly as she could manage. "It's going to be okay," she said.

He nodded. "I know," he said, slipping a bit of bacon to his wolf. Ghost chewed happily and licked his lips afterward. Sansa thought briefly of Lady; how delicate and calm she had always been. She wondered if the wolf would have grown as Sansa had.

"Your Grace!" The doors of the Great Hall were thrown open, and with them came three figures and a rush of snow. Every head turned. Jon stood as they approached.

The man was short, with a bow strung across his back and a Stark sigil emblazoned proudly on his armour. With him were two others in the same attire. Just three of the fifty that she and Jon had established as their new house-hold guard.

"A raven has come from the Riverlands," the man announced. His two companions hung back, tentative. Sansa kept her eyes on them as their lead handed the bound and sealed scroll to her brother. "But that's not all; there's word on King's Landing."

At that, Sansa shot out of her chair. "King's Landing?" She demanded.

"Aye," said the man, whom she knew as Jeon. "The Sept of Baelor has been burned — a wildfyre explosion they say. Queen Margery, her brother Loras, her father, and the bastard Tommen Hill are all dead. Cersei Lannister has been crowned Queen."

Sansa exchanged a glance with Jon. Her chest was heaving, her heart was pounding. _Seven hells_ , she thought, horrified. This would put the realms to damnation. The north would be in complete exile. And not only that, but... Margaery was gone. Margaery, who had been the only friend she'd had in King's Landing. Sansa had loved her, and Sansa had lost her.

Jon gave her a small nod, and ripped open the scroll. His eyes rolled over the markings. "Sansa," he called sharply. Instantly she was at his side and reading over his shoulder.

 _Lady Sansa,_

 _Walder Frey is dead; along with him are his sons Lothar Frey and Black Walder Rivers. I plan to lay siege on the Twins as soon as I can muster a force. I ask for your aid, Lady Sansa of Winterfell, daughter of Catelyn Tully. If you follow the words of your Lady mother's house, I know you would make a fair ruler of Riverrun. Our lands need you._

 _— Lord Jonos Bracken_

"Gods above," Sansa whispered. She took the letter from him and read it, over and over. She felt angry and impatient and excited all at once. Walder Frey was dead, but it had not been her that killed him.

"What do we do?"

Jon was looking at her, almost imploringly. She folded the letter. "Later," she said. "Save it for the council."

He nodded, and dismissed the messenger. Sansa went back to her food, heart pounding against her ribcage, with a blank-faced facade in place so that no one would see... No one would know how absolutely terrified — how _ecstatic_ — she was.

Her eyes found him in the back of the hall, seated behind Yohn Royce and all the other Lords of the Vale. Littlefinger was smiling. Had it been him? Had he sent some assassin in the night to enact revenge for the woman he had loved?

Sansa held his gaze unflinchingly and thought that maybe, perhaps she had been wrong about him.

It was an almost terrifying notion, but it was not the first time it had crossed her mind. The first having been when he had confronted her in the godswood, the second when the northern lords had proclaimed Jon their king.

She had smiled at him. She had watched with pride and then... Then her eyes had found Petyr's, and something had twisted in her stomach. _I brought in the Knights of the Vale,_ she had found herself thinking, _I saved all of their lives. It was me. And what do I get? The Lord's chamber? No doubt that will be Jon's, now._

Her own bitterness had surprised her, as it did now, but she'd had a sickly feeling in her gut; something resentful and angry. _I should be queen_ , she'd thought. _Queen in the North._

But she had meant what she had said that morning; she would stand by Jon and keep him with her until they were both long dead. He was her family; her brother. And if she was going to be queen, she would achieve that and rule alongside him.

She didn't need to use Lord Baelish as a stepping stool. And she didn't want to be responsible for the whole of the north. She knew the game, and Jon knew how to fight. It would be easy to get what she wanted.

Sansa finished breaking her fast and stood. "I'm going to the godswood," she told Jon. "When you're done... Will you visit Rickon in the crypts with me?"

All of the sudden her voice was shaking. She thought of Rickon, who she had not even shed a tear for when he'd died. Her littlest brother. It was past time she grieved for him properly. And the crypts were a place of the Starks. No one would bother them there.

Jon nodded solemnly. "As you wish."

She swept from the hall, half the eyes in the hall trained on her. But there was only one pair that mattered. And they stayed with her until they were secluded within the trees. It was not until she bent before the Heart Tree that he spoke.

"Lady Sansa."

"Lord Baelish."

The words were bitter on her tongue, but she tried to make them sound sweet. Vinegar disguised as honey. He stepped toward her. "Have you considered my offer?"

"Of what? Marriage?" She almost scoffed. Yes, perhaps she had been wrong, but she would not marry him for her mistake. "Have you forgotten that I have already been married twice? And that, technically I am still wed Tyrion?"

"The imp has not been seen for nearly two years," he told her, coming closer.

"As long as he lives," Sansa said, "he will be my husband. Perhaps not truly; the marriage was never consummated as you know." _But to me... Tyrion was kind. Loyal, and kind. All he ever did was protect me. Even now he does so, and he is not even with me. I do not love him, though. And he does not love me. But that is alright._

Lord Baelish let out something that might have been a laugh. "If you wish to remain married to the imp—"

"Stop." She held up a hand and turned around to face him, abandoning the weirwood tree of her ancestors. "I have no wish to remarry, not now or ever. I do not want to be married to a man thrice my age—"

"Oh, not to me, my love," Petyr smiled. "To Robin."

"My cousin?" Sansa was outraged. "Do you take me for a Lannister?"

"Lysa suggested it before and you said nothing against it," Petyr reminded her. "Why the sudden dissent?"

"Lysa was mad," Sansa spat. "I was doing what I had to do to stay alive. Now I'm safe. I'm home. I have a family again. Why do you have to keep spoiling that?!"

He pursed his lips and she worried she had gone too far. What was she to do to fix it? But then Lord Baelish stepped closer — as close as he could be without joining their lips — and sighed. He smelt of mint. "I only want you to be happy, my love."

 _Stop calling me that_ , she wanted to scream. His fingers grabbed at her hair, far too close to her breast for any comfort. She shuddered with fear. "If you want me happy," she said, "then stand by me. Don't marry me to my cousin and cart me away from my home. That is the opposite of what I want."

"What do you want?"

 _Not you. Never you_. "I want to rule alongside my brother. That's all. I don't want to conquer him or hurt him. This may be an unfamiliar notion to you, but I love him. Can you understand that?"

"It will be as you like, my love," he said, and he sealed his promise with a kiss.

The taste of him was almost sour. He had kissed her before, but never like this. Never had he slipped his worm's tongue past her lips and tasted her own with his. She hated the entire experience and withdrew as soon as she was able. "I said no," she told him, making her voice like ice. "I do not want you, my lord."

"You will in time," he said.

"She told you, she does not want you."

Jon was there, watching with a frown. Ghost stood by his side, ever the silent sentry. She was so relieved she almost cried, but she had to be strong. She did not need Jon to save her all the time. "Excuse me, Lord Baelish," she smiled with all of the patience she could muster. "I have prior engagements with my brother."

Petyr looked between the two of them. Then he bowed and took his leave with a mocking, 'Your Grace,' directed at Jon.

Her brother studied her. "Does he do that often?"

"As often as he can," she said. "Usually he takes me by surprise."

"So you don't like it?"

She laughed. "No. Of course not. He is not... I do not love him."

Jon nodded as though satisfied. "Have you ever loved anyone in that way, Sansa?" His tone was curious and sad — not at all angry like she thought he might be.

She thought of Margaery; of her warm smile and soft skin, which had brushed Sansa's as she passed over roses and lemon cakes. Little bright gifts in such a dark time. Sansa would have liked very much to have kissed her — in thanks, or in desire. She would have liked very much to have seen her once more before she died. "I... Once. I don't know. Have you?"

Jon smiled. There were so many shattered pieces behind that lie; broken glass, splintered wood, an out of tune song. Her sweet brother. What had he endured?

"Her name was Ygritte," he said. They sat together before the Heart Tree, staring at the frozen spring. Suddenly her father's face had drifted to her mind — staring down at her, standing before the Heart Tree with the sunlight drifting through the red leaves and over his shoulder, through thin lines and crevices, like a golden kiss against broken glass. Then there was Robb, with snow melting in his hair, smiling at her for the last time. And her Mother, sitting beside her broken brother, doing all that she could to save them and not bothering to take her eyes off of his frail form. Bran, who had looked so small and thin, but before had been so sweet and good. And Jon. Standing in their tent, promising her that he would never let Ramsay touch her, ever again. That he would protect her. And he had, had he not? He had beaten Ramsay — stopping only to let her finish the job. He had granted her that honour, at the very least.

Sansa took his hand. "What happened to her?"

"She died," he said. "Murdered by the same boy who tried to kill me."

 _Did kill you_ , Sansa wanted to say — but she didn't. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "What... What was she like?"

Jon's smile was true, this time. She could see how his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "She was free," he said. "Wild and free and beautiful. I was hers and she was mine. And then she was taken from me."

Sansa felt awful. She squeezed his hand, leaning her head on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a few minutes. Sansa took comfort in the feeling of him with her; her brother. Her family. Her home.

"Did you mean what you said?"

"About what?"

"You told me that I was a Stark, to you," he said. "But I've never been more than a bastard."

Sansa frowned. "You're a king, now."

"That doesn't make me a Stark," he countered. Their eyes met, and she was saddened to see the sorrow in his.

"You're a Stark if I say you're a Stark," she told him. "Robb was your brother. So was Bran. So was Rickon. Arya..." Her breath hitched. "We're your sisters. I'm going to be there for you." She kicked at the snow. "What _I_ said... You told me you would protect me and I said you couldn't."

Jon frowned. "You are the only reason I have kept going," he said suddenly. "Protecting you is my purpose. I don't care whether you believe that or not. I'll do it anyway."

"I need to be able to protect myself," she told him.

Jon have her a sideways look. "Of course," he affirmed, "but I want to help you."

She stared at him for another moment, contemplating. "Thank you," she said at last.

"You don't need to thank me," he said. "Helping you is the least that I can do, San."

 _San_. She wrapped her arms around his middle and buried her face in his neck. He seemed a little startled, but after a few seconds he embraced her back. It was just as warm, just was sweet, as the hug he'd given her when she'd first seen him again.

"I love you," she told him.

Jon hesitated. And then, "I love you too, sister."

* * *

He looked so young.

Their father's face beside him, in comparison, was aged and weathered even in death. He had been so weary that even the crypt master knew how many burdens he had carried. Sansa lit the candle in her father's open palms as Jon did the same for Rickon.

"He shouldn't have died," Jon said quietly.

Sansa glanced at him. He looked so much older in that moment; just as weary as Father. She took his hand in the darkness, wanting to shield him from the great demon of pain and grief. "I know," she said. "But you lived. And so did I. In order to win, you must always first lose."

Jon frowned. "Father's words?"

 _No, those were Petyr's_. "Yes," she lied, not wanting to confront the issue again.

Jon stared up at their baby brother. "I remember the day he was born," Jon told her. "I remember being scared... But I didn't say it. Robb and I spent the whole day in the godswood praying for you lady mother, for the baby..."

"I was scared, too," she said. "I cried, actually. I remember hearing mother scream and being absolutely terrified. Do you remember Father pacing? Gods, I thought he just might wear out the floor."

Jon laughed. It faltered. "I'm so tired of everyone I care about dying," he said shortly. He turned to her, looking almost pleading. "I had a dream last night. I saw Aunt Lyanna, and Father, and Robb... They kept asking me questions, but I don't remember what they were..."

Sansa frowned. "Aunt Lyanna?" _Why Aunt Lyanna?_

Jon shook his head. "I do not understand it," he said, eyes staring at something just above her head. She turned, only to see their aunt's effigy standing proudly. "I am sure it was her." They approached, hesitantly.

Jon's hand slipped out of her own and reached up, inches away from touching the cold, stone cheek of her effigy before he stopped himself and recoiled. Sansa looked between them. "Everyone said that Arya looked like Lyanna," she told him, mind reeling.

"They did."

"Everyone always said that, but for the age difference, you and Arya could be twins."

She had always looked down on them. Always called him 'bastard,' and her 'Arya Horseface.' She supposed that her teasing had brought them closer — Arya and Jon had always been so close. She was envious of that, now.

But then she remembered that Arya was not here. That Arya could be dead. Their little sister...

"What are you saying?" Jon asked, suspicious.

Sansa shrugged. "Just that you look like her," she told him. "Maybe it had something to do with that. Or Father."

"Father..." Jon whispered. His eyes flickered to his own chest with a frown. Then he looked back up, at her. His gaze seemed to lighten as though he was not truly seeing her. He whispered something, seemingly dazed, that she could not hear.

Sansa furrowed her brow. "What was that?"

Jon blinked. He was confused. "I don't know," he said. Quickly he turned away and began the ascent up the damp staircase to the courtyard. Sansa ran after him.

"Jon," she said, grabbing his wrist. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he jerked out of her grasp, and then softened. Her hurt must have been clear. "I am fine, Sansa. I promise."

"Sup with me later," she ordered. "After the council meeting."

Jon nodded, distracted. "As you wish."

* * *

The assembled Lords and Ladies did not make twenty. She supposed that Robb had had more. Here there were Lords Manderly, Glover, Cerwyn, Seaworth, Hornwood, Flint, and Baelish, as well as Ladies Karstark and Mormont. There was also Jon, herself, and Tormund Giantsbane.

"I thank you for attending, my lords and ladies," Jon said. "We have commenced today to discuss the sudden death of Lord Walder Frey." He paused, looking at each of them in turn. "I need to know if any of you commissioned for his death."

There was no answer.

"I assure you, there will be no consequences should any of you have taken action."

Again, there was silence.

Jon nodded. "The Riverlands rally," he said. "With them no longer under the reign of the Freys they have the freedom to take back their lands. They call for aid."

There was an outcry. "Your Grace!" Lord Manderly's voice boomed over them all. "Winter has come! We have all seen the ravens. It would be a fool's errand to venture south. You yourself have spoken of the true threat of the north. Leave the southroners to their games. We have a true war to think about."

Sansa could hear the wisdom in his words. And yet she clenched her fists, frustrated. "Lord Manderly," she said, "the Riverlands were my mother's home. They are my lands as much as the north. Lady Catelyn was the wife of your liege lord. She was murdered in cold blood, under a violation of guest right. Do you not think you owe it to her — to Robb?"

"Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding!" Lord Manderly boomed.

Sansa wanted to roll her eyes. She managed to restrain herself. "How?" She asked. "My brother rallied what parts of the north would follow him. A great achievement. He fought against the son of the man who murdered my brother. A great achievement. He took back Winterfell from our enemies. A great achievement. But how, I ask, does any of that avenge the Red Wedding?"

Jon shifted. She tried to convey that she meant him no slight, but he was not looking at her. Instead he stood silently with his direwolf companion, scratching him between the ears. She wondered if he took comfort from that, as she had done with Lady.

Lord Manderly said nothing, nor did anyone else. And so Sansa went on. "My brother is a brave man," she said. "Worthy of the title of king. My saying that should not be taken lightly; I have met many a false kings and lords, I assure you. No one has ever been more worthy."

Jon smiled. "My lady speaks high praise," he said.

She nodded. "More to the point, my lords, though Walder Frey and his two sons are dead, there are still plenty more ready to take his place. My brother and mother will not be avenged until there are no more Freys breathing the air; until their home has been turned to naught but ash."

Her words had an effect this time. The northerners nodded their assent. Some expressed their approval.

Jon was frowning again. "What of the innocents?" He asked her.

"No Frey is innocent, Your Grace," Lord Cerwyn spat. "Their blood is as foul as their faces."

"That is not so," Jon said. He closed his eyes momentarily. "We will spare those that deserve to be spared, but the question remains still: will you fight for the south as you did for my brother, this time alongside your Queen?"

The title took her by surprise. Sansa's gaze shot to his own. His eyes were full of mirth and something like trust. Their Queen. She felt pride bubble up inside of her. And happiness. It was such an unfamiliar feeling that she could not breathe.

The lords and ladies did not seem to notice their altercation. They did not even miss a beat. Their rumbles of approval and affirmation earned her heart. She felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes.

"Bear Island will fight for Queen Sansa," Lady Mormont said proudly — such a small thing with such a big heart.

"The Wolfswood will fight for Queen Sansa," Lord Glover said.

"The Vale will fight for Queen Sansa," Lord Baelish said, nodding significantly. Not even that could spoil it.

"Seven hells, the whole fucking north will fight for you, Your Grace!" Lord Manderly slapped her on the back, which took the wind out of her.

 _"I would be queen someday," she had told her mother._

 _"You would have to leave home," her mother had countered._

Not so. Indeed, not so.

* * *

 **AN: Enjoy your chapter! And please review; I want a couple of constructive (and criticising, if you deem it necessary) comments. The next update will be 9/9/16!**


	4. Chapter 4

THREE; Tyrion

Winterfell was not as he remembered it to be.

The last time he had seen it, the keep had been like an ageing man; worn and rusted and true. Now, after the Bolton men had set fire to it, fresh wood stood out against what had been salvaged — against what had survived despite the flayed man's wishes.

It was a bittersweet feeling; being here. Upon his last visit he had been received by Robb Stark, who had bore him little love. After Tyrion had helped his brother, Bran, though, the Young Wolf had expressed his shocked gratitude. Tyrion had denied it. _I have a special place in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things._

Robb Stark was gone, now. As were his two little brothers, and all their wolves. The thought saddened Tyrion. Good men, dying for their father, for their home. Good men were always betrayed in the end.

Tyrion slipped off of his horse, Grey Worm after him. He had gotten over his shame at the riding arrangements a while before. It might have been renewed, had he been anywhere else but the north — southroners stared. Northerners had seen far worse than a mangled Imp and an Unsullied.

It was snowing, as it had been the last time Tyrion had been here. And yet, this was a different sort of snow. A harsher, sharper kind that made it hurt to breathe in. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him to block out the bitter winds and sighed.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Grey Worm," he said quietly.

The Unsullied grunted. Tyrion almost felt sorry for him; the soldier had never loved him, and now he had been forced to depart from his Queen to guard Tyrion. The man was shivering, despite his cloak. Poor lad had never been this far north before, Tyrion wagered.

"Come," he said. "Let us find our northern friends. Perhaps they will give us a drink or two; some food to warm our bellies."

And so Tyrion led the way, waddling, while Grey Worm followed hesitantly behind. Tyrion knew the way to the Great Hall, and so he walked toward it. The doors, unmercifully, were closed. _Time to put on a show._

The heavy slabs of wood creaked loudly as he pushed them aside. The Hall was by no means full, though there were a fair few people breaking their fast on the lower benches. Tyrion even spotted what he believed to be wildlings!

Up at the highest table, however, Tyrion saw them.

Jon Snow was seated beside his half-sister, mournfully staring down at his meal. He was wrapped in some great fur cloak that reminded Tyrion all-too-well of the one Ned Stark had worn. The bastard had changed, to be true; you could see it in his face. In his eyes. But he was still brooding. Tyrion could always rely upon that.

Sansa was beside him. She had grown. Her hair was like fire and her eyes were ice; glaring haltingly at a table in the back. And yet, as soon as Tyrion stepped forward her gaze found him. Lids blown wide she stood. Tyrion noticed that she was almost shaking.

"Lord of Lannister," she called.

It was then that the wolf saw him. White as winter snow with eyes as red as blood. Ghost rose to his feet and trotted toward Tyrion. He stood taller than the dwarf, now. A menacing beast if he had ever seen one. "Ghost, my old friend," Tyrion reached up and patted his nose as he had done before. The wolf seemed to find familiarity in that action. He huffed and licked Tyrion's cheek. "Last I saw you... Well, you were shorter than I, suffice to say."

The wolf circled him, sniffing curiously at Grey Worm before deeming him no threat. Tyrion could not help but grin. He approached the high table, walking through rows of hateful others, with his guard behind him. "Lady of Stark," he said, peeling off his gloves. "What a pleasure it is to see you after all of these years."

Sansa swallowed. She exchanged a look with her brother, who was now also on his feet and staring with a facade of impassivity that Tyrion could see straight through. Especially with those balled fists, and his pale, almost worried face. "Lord Tyrion," he said.

Tyrion was glowing within. It truly was a pleasure to see them; to know that they were safe and alive. "Jon," he countered, remembering their promise.

A flicker of a smile passed over the king's face.

Sansa cleared her throat. "Clear the room," she ordered. Instantly, the dozens of northerners rose to their feet and obeyed her — most begrudgingly; why trust a Lannister? — but they did so, anyway. All except three men.

One was a wildling, the other Lord Davos, the other Lord Baelish.

Oh, what a merry party this was going to be.

Tyrion approached a jug of wine. The wolf followed, intrigued. He poured himself a goblet and drank heavily. "Would anyone care for refreshment?"

"Why are you here, Lord Tyrion?"

"Ah, my lady wife, you have grown most bold," he said. Gods, he was proud of her. The tales he had heard! "I always forget how little northerners value pleasantries. It would seem your time in the south was all for naught, Lady Sansa."

She frowned, circling the table. "Not all for naught, my lord," she said. "Forgive us, if you please. Your sudden appearance is a shock. Would it not have served you better to send a raven? We could have prepared rooms, a place of honour at out table—"

"Or an ambush," Tyrion countered. "If you will forgive me, my lady, but it has been many moons since I last laid eyes on you, and in that time it would seem you have taken up most unfavourable company." His eyes drifted to Lord Baelish. The weasel was smirking, as always; _I got here first_ , he seemed to say.

"We would never do that to a friend," said Jon Snow. "Or anyone, for that matter."

" _Are_ you a friend?" Sansa asked, uncertain.

Tyrion hummed. "Of a sort," he said. They waited. "I am here on behalf of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. I am her Hand, you see."

Sansa's eyes widened. Lord Baelish actually chuckled. "Oh, it is just like you to find whoever you can to grovel to, my friend," said he. "But of course you would seek out the dragon queen. You always were obsessed with them. Perhaps you though you might finally ride one!"

Tyrion's blood boiled. Grey Worm started forward, but Tyrion grabbed his wrist. "That is quite enough," he said to the both of them. "Grey Worm, we will not be killing this man today."

"He insulted our Queen," the unsullied protested.

"As have many," he countered. "If you tried to murder every person who insulted Daenerys Stormborn you would die of the effort."

Grey Worm scowled, but nonetheless he settled back. Lord Baelish, however, was not done. "It seems you have a new friend," he said. "Tell me, does this one also suck your—"

"That is _enough_ ," Jon ordered. His eyes, Tyrion was startled to observe, looked eerily similar to Daenerys' when she spoke with such a tone. The dwarf shuddered. "Lord Baelish, if you continue to insult the guests of House Stark I will have no choice but to remove you from our company."

"And with me go the Knights of the Vale, _Your Grace_."

Sansa scowled. "Need I remind you, my Lord," she said, "that you have pledged your knights to _me?_ "

"Of course, Your Grace. My most sincere apologies," Peytr bowed his head and slunk backward, into the shadows. Like the snake he was.

Tyrion, on the other hand, was only getting started. "I have been ordered to parlay with you," he said, as though nothing had happened. "My Queen requests that, if it is at all possible, we make peace with the Starks of Winterfell; and, hopefully, become allies in this time of war."

"Daenerys Targaryen," Jon said. He sounded almost suspicious.

Tyrion nodded. "She is making her return to Westeros as we speak," he said, careful not to reveal too many details as unwelcome ears were listening. "I broke off from the armada with Grey Worm here to see if, perhaps, an alliance could be made."

"You plan to attack the Red Keep," said Lord Davos.

"As your King did, most unsuccessfully — thanks to myself."

"You Lannisters have a habit of using wildfire to meet your needs," Jon said.

Tyrion blinked. "What, pray tell, do you mean, exactly?"

"You haven't heard?" Sansa stepped forward with a frown. "Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor with it. She murdered Margaery, the High Sparrow, Ser Loras and dozens of others. Tommen commuted suicide because of what she had done."

Tyrion had not stopped to think about it, but now he realised that of course, in order for Cersei to achieve the Iron Throne, Tommen would have had to die. Seven Hells... Tommen had always been sweet. Good and kind and honest. A subject of his brother's torment and an unwelcome receiver of Cersei's love.

"My beloved nephew," he whispered quietly.

Quickly Tyrion composed himself. "This is most unwelcome news," he said. "I am ashamed to admit that my actions might have put the idea in my dear sister's head."

"They're calling her the Mad Queen," Sansa told him.

"You and I both know the truth behind those words," Tyrion told her. Their gazes locked onto one another, and Tyrion was startled to see guilt, there. And shame.

"Lord Tyrion," she said, "I must apologise for my fleeing on the day of Joffery's death. Had I stayed... I might have been able to help you in some way—"

"Nonsense, my lady." Tyrion smiled; a true, genuine one that almost hurt his face to make. "You would have been tormented more than you already had — perhaps executed, knowing Cersei. It is a blessing of the gods that we both stand here today, alive and safe. You must regret nothing."

She nodded with a blush, bowing her head.

"What are the conditions of this alliance?" Lord Davos asked.

Tyrion cleared his throat and pulled out a scroll. He approached Jon and passed it to him. "They are all listed there, my friend," he said.

Jon nodded. He undid the wax seal and spent a good minute reading them over. Once he even flushed red. "Tyrion," he said, sounding almost reprimanding, "this includes an offer of marriage."

The dwarf coughed delicately, setting his wine down. "Yes, well..." He sighed. "You are one of the only... _Suitable_ potential husbands in Westeros, at the moment."

"I am a bastard," Jon argued.

"You are a king," Tyrion corrected. "Self-proclaimed or no, the north has recognised you as their ruler. They obey your command. If Daenerys is going to take her home back, she needs the north on her side."

"Why would the north heed any man who married the dragon queen?" Jon demanded.

A good point. Tyrion re-filled his goblet. "King Torrhen bowed to Aegon the Conquerer hundreds of years ago," he reminded them, "before that, the north never knelt. They were stubborn that way. And now here you are, in much the same position as he was. And yet Daenerys does not ask you to kneel. She asks that you consider her your equal."

It was not Jon who spoke next, but the wilding. "This dragon queen... Does she truly have such beasts?"

"Three of them," Tyrion replied. "Fully grown and _glorious_. I had seen them; ran my hands over their scales. I have watched them breathe fire and fly across the skies. They are no tale."

"Dragons..." Jon echoed. He and the wildling exchanged glances, before Tyrion's old friend spoke again. "My lord, you accompanied me on my journey to the Wall. You've seen it; the state of it's defences. Do you think such a garrison could stand against an army of the dead?"

Tyrion stared at him for a moment, comprehending his words. If there was one thing that he had learned about the young man, it was that he rarely jested. Jon's words were always true. A madman sees what he believes he sees. And yet, no one in the room was laughing.

Tyrion took a step forward, edging closer to his solemn young friend. "An army of the dead," he repeated. "You you mean to tell me the white walkers have arisen?"

"Aye," said Jon.

Tyrion rubbed his temples. "Seven hells..." Quickly he glanced back up. "Have you seen them?"

"I have fought them, my lord," he said. "I killed one with this sword." He grabbed the hilt of a long bastard blade — one which Tyrion actually recognised.

"That was Jeor Mormont's sword," he said. "Did he give it to you before he...?"

"Aye," said Jon, again. "I saved him from a wight. Burnt my hand doing it."

Wights, white walkers... Tyrion had encountered dragons. He had spoken with red witches and he had seen the worst of things in his own dreams. Suddenly Tyrion was sure. "If Valyrian steel can kill them, we will make more." He stood right before Jon. "One of the key things that makes Valyrian steel different from all else is dragon fire. If the dead are coming, they are far more of a threat than my dear bitch sister. Daenerys will understand."

"Dragonglass also kills them," said Jon. "And... Fire kills the wights. If we had three dragons fighting against the walkers..."

Tyrion nodded. "So what do you say, then? Marry Daenerys, get your dragons, raze the dead."

"It says here that all consort with Peytr Baelish is disallowed," Jon read. He looked as though he was forcing his frown. "Why is that?"

"Surely the dragon queen does not think me a threat?" Lord Baelish re-emerged with a smile like silk and eyes like that of a demon.

"Oh, I assure you, she doesn't," Tyrion said. "But she knows of you. And she knows enough to hate you, without even having to meet you. Old friend."

Baelish rose an eyebrow. "And if I should raise my banners against you?"

"Not your banners," said Sansa, suddenly. She was scowling. "The banners of my cousin." She turned to Tyrion. "Unfortunately Petyr holds great sway over Robyn. The Knights of the Vale are fifteen-thousand strong."

Baelish smiled.

"Do you know how long a dragon is, Lord Baelish?" Tyrion turned to him. He had no idea where the words were coming from, but all the same they spilled out. "One of Drogon's wings alone is twice the size of this hall. I assure you, you and all your Knights will burn before you can so much as say, 'Charge,'" he smiled. "Should you, of course, take up arms against my lady wife and good-brother."

Perhaps the last bit was a bit presumptuous, but Tyrion didn't care.

Baelish bowed his head, but Tyrion knew that the words had not truly cowed him. He would come back for more.

"I must think on this, my lord," Jon said, re-rolling the scroll. "How soon do you need an answer?"

"Within the next moon's turn, I would say," he finished his wine. "Do not rush yourself, Jon. Heavens know thinking has always been difficult for you."

Jon laughed. "So I have been told."

* * *

His accommodations were far better than last time.

The room was well suited for him; plenty of candles, warm furs, a low bed and a chamber pot made for a child. Even the window was set lower than all the rest. Tyrion slept for a good hour or two, with Grey Worm guarding him — though Tyrion said there was no need, the soldier had insisted upon it. Tyrion wondered what he did when he had to shit, or piss.

When night fell, Tyrion had settled into his chair, contemplating the evening over a cup of mead and a book. His candle flickered with every gust of wind, but Tyrion kept the window open; this part of the keep was so stifling he had almost begun to sweat.

Sansa had grown into a fine young lady. It would seem that all of the torment she had endured in King's Landing was well worth it; she had learnt the game and learnt it well. Tyrion could not help but feel pride in being one of her teachers.

Jon, on the other hand... Tyrion had heard many tales of his bravery in the Battle of the Bastards, as they called it. Jon had been a greenboy when Tyrion had seen him last; now he was a man. A scarred, broken man who held onto his hope like it was a lifeline. Tyrion would know; he was much the same way.

A knock on his door jolted him out of his musings. "Enter," he called.

It was Lady Sansa, to his surprise. She slipped through the door and closed it behind her. "Lord Tyrion."

"There is no need for that, my lady," Tyrion closed his book on a finger and smiled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sansa laced her fingers together. She looked so like her mother in that moment; standing straight and tall, a beauty and a lady, but not someone to be trifled with. Slowly she sat herself across from him. "Earlier today you called me your wife," she said softly. "You are aware that I re-married, yes?"

"I am indeed," Tyrion smiled again. "I am also aware that your second husband is dead. And, more to the point, I am aware that even if you do not consider me your husband, or even you my wife, I will always be here to protect you. To counsel you. To advise you."

Sansa blushed. "I was awful to you."

"You had lost your mother, your brother, and had been forced into a marriage with a man you did not know or love. Anyone would have acted much the same way."

Nodding, she reached out and poured a chalice of wine for herself. Tyrion remembered the night of their wedding, when she had been so hesitant with the drink and then forceful. Now she was only grace. "I... I've thought about the way I treated you a lot," she told him. "I've regretted it greatly... But I did not love you. Not in that way. And it was wrong... Wrong of them to have forced us into such a situation. To create unnecessary obligations. Still, I should have - have understood that _you_ were being punished as well."

He reached out across the table and grabbed her hand, not knowing what else to do. "I wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself," he said. "There are more important things to worry about. And I am not angry."

Sansa nodded. She drew in a sharp breath as though gathering her courage and wit and spoke again. "They say every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin: sanity or madness. Tell me true, my lord; if my brother heeds this offer, what will he be marrying?"

Tyrion smiled. "A kind, honest woman," he said. "No more mad than you or I. She is a gentle ruler, but forceful when needed. She knows when to grant mercy." He shot her a significant look at that. "My lady Sansa, she is not at all what you would expect. Never have I had more faith in a person."

Sansa seemed reassured. "Thank you," she said.

To his surprise, she rose, rounded the table, and took his face in her hands. Then she kissed him on the cheek — very softly, and right on his scar. "Jon told me what you said to him, when he was younger," she explained. "And after all that you have done for me... Thank you, my lord husband."

Tyrion smiled.

* * *

 **AN: Alright, okay, let me get one thing straight: this is not a Sansa x Tyrion story. Their bond is purely platonic, and though they consider themselves to be "married" it's purely for the purposes of politics and Sansa's safety (she won't have to marry anyone else if she's "married" to Tyrion). No romance between the two. It's not that I want to shut down ships, I just don't want to explore any more romance on the part of Sansa and Tyrion, because I feel like they've already been through too much.**

 **But anyway, there is your chapter. I'm super nervous about the time-skip. Do you guys hate me for it? I just feel like, if the whole Tyrion-Goes-To-Winterfell thing we're to happen in the show, they wouldn't make a fuss about the journey there, you know?**

 **Review, if it pleases you, my lords and ladies!**


	5. Chapter 5

FOUR; Cersei

"Do you want my protection?"

Jamie's question had startled her, but she did not turn to face him. She could not bear to see the look of disappointment again. She should not have cared. It was foolish to care. Jamie was her lover and her brother, nothing more.

And she was Queen.

A flicker of a smile adorned her face at the thought. Of course she had always been Queen — but now nothing stood in her way. No fat fool, no sons, no sluts. Just her. Her words were law. Her wants were needs. No one was stopping her.

Jamie moved closer. She could hear it; she could feel it.

"I took my vows for a King, sweet sister," he said quietly. "You are no King. Do you want me to protect you or fuck you? Or both?"

Years — even months ago — he would have been happy for her. Glad to lay with her. He would have been amused, he would have cursed their enemies and told them to go fuck themselves. Now his words were bitter.

"What happened to you?" She asked, clutching her chalice of wine. She finally turned to him. He looked beautiful; golden hair and green eyes just like her own, but the brightness in them had dulled and his hair was greying. Not so young anymore.

Neither was she, but _she_ still remained the most beautiful woman in Westeros.

Jamie rolled his eyes. "Life. Death. War." He huffed. "I could ask you the same question."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means our last son has just died — no, he's _killed himself,_ Cersei — and you stand there and have the audacity to ask me why... Why what? Why I'm not grovelling at your fucking feet? You must excuse me, sweet sister."

She hated him calling her that. Tyrion had always called her 'sweet sister'. It was meant mockingly. She was Queen. Not someone to be mocked. Cersei raised her chin. "I would remind you that I am your queen."

"Are you?"

She was startled by his question once again. Frustrated, Cersei slammed down her wine and grabbed him. "Have you decided to follow the dragon queen, now?"

Jamie's eyes turned dark. "Never," he spat. Then he leaned his lips down to her own but they did not touch. "Do you know what they're calling you, Cersei? The Mad Queen. I've already served one mad ruler and we both know how that ended."

Cersei stepped back. She did not understand. What was he saying?

"Jamie—"

"Will I be a part of your queensguard?"

She frowned. "No."

"Then I believe my presence is no longer necessary," he bowed his head. "By your leave, Your Grace."

She wanted to kill him, right then. How dare he mock her? How dare he defy her? And yet it was Jamie. The one thing she had left. "Go."

* * *

The small council chamber had been moved back to it's usual place. Cersei liked the walk. She loved staring out at the ruins of the Sept, hearing the screams of the tormented. Gods, the sound was sweet.

Cersei followed the Mountain through the halls. His deep, lumbering footsteps were like music to her. She had seen him crush skills and rip men apart. If he were not a corpse, she would fuck him.

Qyburn, her Hand, stood by the door. He opened it for her with a genial smile and followed her once inside. Inside her Small Council had assembled; Jamie, Qyburn, Ser Gregor, and herself. That was all. Frowning, Cersei seated herself at the head. It was no matter; she was glory and wit enough for all of them.

"Is there any news?" She asked of her Hand.

"Oh, much," Qyburn leaned back in his seat. "Your Grace, I am afraid my report today will be solemn. To firstly note, the north is no longer in the hands of Ramsay Bolton, but Sansa Stark and her bastard brother, Jon Snow. The northern lords have declared for Jon Snow, my birds tell me. He has been crowned King in the North."

Her anger had risen with every word, and now her veins were throbbing. Cersei shot from her seat and began to pace, agitated. "How do we kill them? No, I don't want it done by spies or assassins. I want that little bitch brought to me. I want to beat her bloody and then watch her burn..." She could see it now; pale skin turning red from blood and then blackening, peeling away from her bones... Which would char, and then she would be nothing but ash. No threat.

Qyburn shifted. "Unfortunately Lady Stark is well guarded," he smiled. "It would be impossible for my little birds to slip in, I fear. And yet... Lord Baelish has declared for the Starks — at least, that is the way it seems. Baelish has always been deep in his coins."

Yes. Excitement fluttered Cersei's stomach. Oh, of course. "Send him a raven," she ordered. "I want her here was soon as possible."

Qyburn nodded. "Of course, Your Grace."

"Other news?"

"Both the Reach and Dorne have declared for Daenerys Targaryen. They have given her their armies and armadas."

 _That rotten bitch,_ Cersei thought. _Blasted Queen of Thorns and her needless grudges_. "Rally our forces and launch an attack on them," she ordered.

Jamie laughed. "What forces? Our two-hundred goldcloaks?"

Despite her anger, Cersei realised he was right. She glared at him. "We have the Riverlands," she reminded him pointedly. That was why he had left, after all. On the orders of her fool son.

"Not anymore," Qyburn said hesitantly. "Walder Frey was murdered. The Riverlands have rallied behind the Blackhavens, I fear."

"Fuck!" Cersei slammed her fist upon the table. "Do you have _any_ good news, Qyburn?!"

A sly smile took over his face. "Oh, yes, Your Grace." He paused, the little worm, and then went on. "Euron Damphair has come to the city. With him he has the promise of a large armada and a chance at revenge against the dragon queen."

"Send him in," she ordered of the Mountain. Then she turned back to Qyburn while they waited. "We do not have the Vale, the North, the Reach, Dorne, or the Stormlands. How do we get them back?"

"Through him," Qyburn said.

The Mountain returned.

As soon as she saw him, Cersei felt a warm ness spread through her that she had not felt for many a moons. She was reminded heavily of Robert and Jamie both — the good things about them; their builds and easy smirks, their strength. Immediately she wanted him.

Her wants were needs. She would have him.

"Leave us," she ordered of the others.

The Mountain stayed, of course, but the others were soon gone. Euron Greyjoy took his seat across from her and she sat accordingly. "You will declare for me."

"Oh, will I?" He grinned.

"Yes." She reached for the wine and poured herself a goblet. "I am the rightful queen of Westeros."

"By what claim?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"

"No."

She drank and stood, impatient. She wanted him now. "How large is your fleet?"

"At the moment? We have two-hundred finished ships and three-hundred more still being made. I plan to make a thousand more, at least, but I'll need lumber."

"The Reach has plenty," Cersei offered easily. "While you're chopping down their trees, be sure to kill as many of those southron flowers as you can."

Euron smiled again. "I have conditions," he said, not at all hesitant. "Firstly, my title as a king of the Iron Islands will be un-reputed; I plan to find my niece and nephew and kill them both, as soon as this business is done. And, secondly, you and I will marry."

Cersei was taken aback. "No."

"Yes," he said, "I will. And I will shove my big cock in your cunt and make you scream."

Her breath was taken away from her, but she would be strong. "No," she said again. "I will allow you to lie with me. Fuck me as you please. I don't care. But I am too old for marriage."

"So am I."

He was good at this. An easy banter. What could have been with Robert and what should have been with Jamie. "I suppose you expect children of me?"

Euron hummed. "Perhaps," he said. "I have had plenty of bastards with whores. I don't mind if you won't. More importantly, as King of the Iron Islands, we will have a proper wedding in honour of the Drowned God — not that southron shit you people call a wedding."

Cersei narrowed her eyes. "I think not," she said easily, walking away from him. "Here are my terms, Euron Greyjoy; you give me your armada and attack the dragon queen, perhaps you'll even have a chance to murder your beloved niece and nephew. In return... I won't kill you here and now."

For a nice show the Mountain stepped forward, as though their minds were one and he could sense what she wanted; what she needed.

Euron seemed unaffected, however. "I have been threatened by far worse," he said, amused.

Cersei fumed. If not the mountain, then she would threaten him herself. Quickly she drew a knife from the folds of her skirts, which Qyburn had advised her to keep hidden. It was Valyrian steel, with a fine gold hilt in the shape of a lioness.

She put it to his throat. "Swear your fleet to me," she ordered.

"Make me your master of ships," he countered.

The blade dipped ever-so-slightly. Cersei frowned. "I don't see why not," she said slowly. There were hundreds of reasons not to, of course, but she was the queen. She could do whatever she damn well pleased.

Euron smirked. She wanted to ruin him, then. And her wants were needs.

Cersei dug the blade deeper into his skin, as a warning of sorts, but it did not have the intended effect; Euron seemed to relish in the pain. In fact he even moved closer, so that beads of blood trickled down his neck.

She stared at them. He looked up at her.

"Leave, Ser Gregor," she ordered.

His heavy foot-falls eventually dimmed. The door slammed shut. Neither of them so much as flinched. Slowly, with a deep throb between her legs, Cersei leaned down to lick the blood from Euron's neck.

* * *

Septa Unella was pleading again.

Often she pleaded; to the gods, to the High Sparrow, to Cersei herself. The sound was sweet, but always short lived. The Mountain would beat her again and Cersei would watch, as satisfied as she might have been with Jamie or Euron.

But today, she pleaded to the Mountain. She begged him to cease his tortures. She begged him to stop, to halt, to desist... Nothing would work. Naturally. The Mountain only listed to the likes of Cersei herself.

Desperately Cersei wanted to kill her. She wanted to slit her throat. To end her life, for all of the pain and hardship she had brought down upon her — turned the most beautiful woman in the world to a blithering mess.

Oh, how she wished she could...

But she couldn't. She had made a promise to herself to hold back. To let the torment last twice as long as the one Cersei herself had endured.

She relished in the other woman's pain.

"Hit her again, Ser Gregor," she ordered. "But do not let life slip from her fingers."

Cersei left soon after, having grown bored. She swept from the dungeons to the Throne Room. Cersei much liked the Iron Throne; all had complained of it's discomfort and ugliness, but Cersei thought it was beautiful; a sign of her greatest achievement.

She would have no begging or pleading from the small folk today. Or ever, for that matter. If they wanted help, they could turn to their so loved gods; pray over the ashes of the dead and gone. The nonexistent.

If they do desired assistance they could find it on their own.

She smiled, stroking one of the blades.

She wished she could have added Joffery's to it, but sadly the blade was gone from the explosion. And, she did not have dragons.

Yet.

Her small council was growing; Euron, Jamie, Qyburn... Who else to add? Peytr eventually, when he deflected. No, wait... He had betrayed her. Stolen Sansa Stark away from her! The only use he had was to rot in the Black Cells until she removed her head from his shoulders herself! But he would do good in destroying the alliance of the Starks, beforehand.

She clasped the armrest of the chair.

That was when the first blade cut her.

* * *

 **AN: Oh my god, I'm so very nervous about this chapter. It was so difficult and horrible and cringe-worthy to write, but I LOVE that ending line. I dunno, it was just so hard to but myself in the mindset of Cersei. How do you think I did?**

 **And yes, it's a little on the shorter side... But as I said, it was HARD. I can't even. *shivers***

 **Much love! xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Alright, this is going up today in honour of the Joe Dempsie sighting in a Belfast airport. WHO ELSE IS SHAKING?!**

* * *

FIVE; Arya

"Cersei, the Mountain..." She stared at the low hanging moon with her knees drawn up to her chest and sighed. It came out as a puff of white air, reminding her so strongly of her home that her heart ached. You could always see your breath in the north. The nearer she strayed, the colder it got.

Her hands were pale, and crusted with blood. In her hands was the hilt of her prized blade; her one solid memory of Jon. Of home.

But Jon was dead.

Jon was gone as he never should have been.

* * *

It was like being the Mouse of Harrenhal all over again.

She felt small and insignificant amongst the Brotherhood, though they listened to her all the same, sometimes. The called her 'Princess,' and 'Lady,' but Arya knew she was none of those things. She was No One.

Or perhaps she was Arya Stark again. She had told Walder Frey her name, after all. She had re-claimed the name of Arya of House Stark once more, but she was not sure if that truly made her _Arya_. None of that gave her back such a willful spirit, which she had been stripped of. None of that restored her wolf's blood, which had been beaten out of her. None of it gave her back her pack, which had been slaughtered.

It had taken so long to truly become No One, after all.

"We are coming upon the Trident," Beric told her, hands on the reins of his horse as he pulled up tightly. He looked worse for wear; skin marred and blistered, eye-patch frayed so much she could see the edges of his scarred socket, and skin glistening with sweat. He smelt, too. How many times had he died? Was it the smell of death that lingered there?

Arya felt like Arya when she turned to the Hound. "Maybe we'll find the spot where you murdered a defenceless boy," she said, measuring her tone just so.

The Hound rolled his eyes. He looked different from how she remembered him; he no longer wore armour, and he looked cleaner than he had. He was still the worse shit in the Seven Kingdoms as far as she was concerned, though.

"Maybe I'll finally be rid of you, there," the Hound retorted easily.

Arya did not reply. She was too busy trying to suppress the sudden quivering feeling in her gut — a sort of excited twisting — which felt all too familiar and warm and wonderful. She shoved it away, unsure, as they approached the rushing red waters of the Trident — which had come into view as they rounded the bend in the road. Arya stared at the sparkling surface, frowning. Once she had thought the place to be pretty. Now it was only a reminder of what she had lost.

Arya dismounted with the others. She tied her horse to the trunk of a nearby tree and approached the rushing river. She washed her hands off in the water, scrubbing away what remained of Walder Frey's blood, and the dirt she had acquired from her travels. She splashed her face, as well.

Beric knelt beside her. "How are you fairing, my princess?"

"Don't call me that," she snapped.

"My apologies," Beric picked the dirt from beneath his fingernails. "I thought perhaps with your brother being King—"

"My brother is dead," Arya told him fiercely. _I am Arya Stark. I have to be Arya Stark again; a wolf. A fighter. Remember remember remember..._ "Robb died a long time ago. You know that."

"I am not talking about Robb."

Her head shot up. Suddenly all she could hear was her heart; pounding against her chest. There was no river, no Beric.

Only snow.

Falling softly, so white and crisp. And there was Father, mounting his destrier. And Sansa beside him, wearing a cloak of pale blue, her cheeks flushed from the cold. And there was Robb, grinning up at her with snow melting in his hair.

All was silent. No whinnying of horses, no laughing, no noise. Only a calm, peaceful serenity that belonged only to the wolves of her pack. All the same she was shaking, not from the cold — never from that — but from fear. From anticipation. She'd never set out so far from home before.

Her eyes found Jon, standing at the railing above her, smiling. She remembered Needle in her trunk and smiled back.

The silence did not last. It never did.

Beric was watching her carefully. Assessing her. She'd suspected he knew something was different about her, when she'd told him it was her who killed Walder Frey. His worry had lessened when she explained why, though.

"Bran?" She asked, hoping.

"Not Bran, either."

Arya balled her fists. "Rickon, then," she said. _It has to be him. They would never crown a bastard as their King. Only, Jon isn't just a bastard; he was Robb's brother. He's my family._ There was that longing, again. That hurting, only eased by the memories of him mussing her hair, of giving her Needle, of calling her 'little sister.'

Fear gripped her in the seconds it took for Beric to speak again. "Not him, either," he told her quietly.

Her eyes widened. _Jon. Jon is alive. Those stupid people at the inn said he'd died!_ She'd carried that burden with her for days, until the Brotherhood found her again. Or she found them, more like. All the same, she'd cried herself to sleep that night, and dreamt that she was Nymeria for the first time in weeks. She'd been so close to her pack...

"Are you sure?"

For the first time in months, there was hope in her voice. A forgotten lightness that startled the both of them.

Beric nodded. "Word has spread all throughout the seven kingdoms," he said. "I am surprised you did not know."

Arya almost choked. She turned to the Trident, watching the water rush. It was so much colder than it had been the last time she was here. Soon it would start to freeze. Winter was here.

"How did it happen?" She asked.

Beric hummed. "There was a battle," he said. "Your sister's husband, Ramsay Snow, was murdered, some say. Others say he fell in battle. Others say he still lives, in the skin of another. Your brother himself, some claim."

Sansa had married a man like that? Or, more to the point, Sansa had married again at all? What for?

"Is she alive?"

He knew what Arya meant. "So they say."

Arya pushed upward. The sudden movement must have startled him, for he leaned backward. But she had to get away from him; she had to think. Her eyes prickled. She could feel tears forming. Ashamed, she turned away and walked steadily toward the trees.

Once far enough in, she leaned against a maple trunk and cried for the first time since Robb and Mother had died. _They're alive. The both of them. My pack. My home is safe... I can go home..._

Before she had wondered whether or not it would be safe for her to return to the North, but now she knew there was no threat. It was better than travelling with the Brotherhood, after all. Better than a wasteful journey to King's Landing to kill Cersei Lannister.

Arya wiped her eyes, shaking. She had to get to them. She had to go back north. Jon was her home. And her sister, of course. If she loved her at all anymore. Suddenly all of those insecurities from her childhood came flooding back to her in one go.

Sansa had hated her, she remembered. Let Jeyne Poole call her 'Arya Horseface' and teased her about her crooked stitches. None of those things mattered, anymore, really; Arya had forgiven Sansa for that long ago.

But had Sansa forgiven _her_?

Jon would have. Even for chopping up Walder Frey's sons and cooking them in a pie, he would forgive her. He had given her Needle for a reason; to fight. To get stronger. To kill if she had to.

 _Not if I wanted to_ , a little voice in the back of her head whispered.

She shook it away. _Jon loves me best of anyone,_ she thought defiantly _,_ gripping her leathers so tight her knuckles turned white. _He loves me and he'll take me back. He's my brother. Even Beric says so._

"Arry?"

 _Oh_.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes met his own. She knew him. He was there. How could he not be? The stupid, stupid Bull...

He looked worse than she had ever seen him, even when they had been traveling through the Riverlands together, covered in dirt and soot and surrounded by enemies. Now, there were shadows under his bloodshot eyes, and his knuckles were white, and his chest was heaving as they stared at one another.

"Gendry," she whispered. She'd never been more relieved in her whole life.

He glared down at the ground, instead of her, with his fists balled. "Beric told me you'd run off," he said. "I was worried, so I—"

He wasn't able to say anything more. How could he, with her lips covering his own? She pulled him close — closer than anyone had ever been in so long — pressing his body against her own and slipping her arms around his neck. Her fingers ran through the end of his hair, which was damp from sweat but soft.

He hadn't expected that, but he responded with equal enthusiasm; wrapping his arms around her waist and straightening so that her feet couldn't even touch the ground any longer. Then he pressed her to the same tree trunk she'd been crying at a moment earlier.

It was a wonderful moment. She hadn't believed such things could exist, and not without being gross or stupid, but here was this pulsing in her stomach that made her want so much more, and disappointed when Gendry pulled away.

They were both panting.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have—"

"Oh, gods, you're still an idiot," she shook her head, utterly exasperated. She'd hoped he still wouldn't be such a _stupid_. But he must have been. All the same, she stayed close to him, warm in the stomach and weaving her fingers through his messy black hair, still.

Gendry didn't move, either.

"Why did you go with her?" They both knew what she meant.

"I just wanted to... To be seen as more than a bastard apprentice, Arya." His eyes met her own. They were blue like crystals. "Can you believe that?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "It's still the dumbest thing you could have done. Not being more than a bastard — that's not what I meant." She squeezed him best she could, which was not much given how broad and muscular he was. Gods above... "I mean, you shouldn't have left me. You shouldn't have gone."

He bit into his lip. "I know that. I'm sorry." After a pause, he asked, "Why are you kissing me if you're so angry?"

Her eyes widened. "I never said I was angry!" Flushing at his growing smile, she added without hesitation, "I _was_ angry, but I'm not anymore. I left, too. And I... Could have done something different." She could have gone to Robb, instead of running away, and ordered him to send men after Gendry. Ordered him to be found.

But she hadn't. "I'm sorry."

He stared at her silently for another moment, and then the softest of kisses was given. Even that sent shivers up and down Arya's spine. "I don't want you to be sorry," he told her firmly. "And I don't want to be sorry anymore, either."

"You're so stubborn," Arya exclaimed, frowning.

Gendry laughed. " _I'm_ stubborn?" His head cocked in that way it did when he was both mocking and curious. Arya gave in to the instinctive aching in her belly and pulled his lips down to hers, again. She _was_ still mad, she knew; deep within she was still _furiously angry,_ but he tasted like salt and smoke and berries. She nipped his lower lip lightly.

It took a while for her to succumb to the need for air. Her need for him was greater. His skin was warm, and he held her in a rough way that didn't hurt at all. Suddenly she realised what it was she was feeling.

"I'm going to ask you again," she said breathlessly. "This time you're not allowed to say no."

Gendry grinned. "Go on, then."

She swallowed, and then forced the words out. "Let me be your family?"

"Wouldn't have anyone else," he said softly. She smiled a true smile and peppered his face with kisses, the last one firm on his lips and burning them both.

She would have stayed there forever, if not for the growl that interrupted the both of them.

There, standing in the shrubbery — golden eyes and grey fur — was her wolf. The very same wolf that she had dreamed of, whose presence it must have been that she had sensed. Gods, she was massive. As big as a filly, Maester Luwin had predicted once.

It was indeed true.

She approached them, and somehow Arya could feel the great trepidation of her direwolf - through an unspoken bond, their nervousness connected into one steady flowing of anxiety. Her wolf stalked them; paws not making so much as a slight sound upon the leaf-ridden mulch. Arya's throat clenched. Her blood ran hotter than it had in ages. Gendry pulled away and stepped in front of her, stupidly drawing his sword.

Nymeria still did not make a sound. Arya tried to convey to her that Gendry was not a threat. There was a long and tense moment, where Gendry was panting and Arya was clenching her fists and thinking so loudly she worried she might truly be yelling. Thank the Gods, it worked; Nymeria's molten eyes flickered from the blade to Arya, and then her head titled innocently.

"Get help," Gendry ordered.

Arya blinked, suddenly realising where she was and what was happening. She locked eyes with her wolf, whom she had not seen since Nymeria was a pup, and rushed forward. Gendry called after, grabbing at her arm, but she was too quick. She had always been too quick.

Arya threw her arms around her wolf's neck. "You came back for me," she whispered into her soft, wet pelt.

* * *

They spent the next two hours talking to one another, before Thoros came to fetch them both with an amused grin and stupid, rude questions. Nymeria had gone by then, with a promise in her eyes that she would return as soon as Arya said the words.

It hurt Arya to part with her wolf, even if it was only for so long, but all the same... She hated the ripping feeling that tore her soul in two.

At least she had Gendry.

 _And Jon. And Sansa._

She was doing this for them. It was all for them.

They sipped with the Brotherhood, eating watery stew and roasted rabbits. Arya was starving. She tore into the meat with her teeth, juices flowing across her tongue. Damned brotherhood could make even a rabbit taste good.

The entire meal through she thought about her plan. She thought about her brothers. Her sister. Jon always stood out the most, though. Jon's smile. Jon's laugh. Jon's voice, calling her back home in her dreams...

Gendry gave her the rest of his broth with an amused smile, having seen how she devoured the rest of her food. She thanked him, wanting even kiss him for it she was so hungry, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Night fell. Arya waited.

Finally the first howl sounded. No one seemed all that concerned; it was far off enough and there were plenty of wolves around. Probably the brotherhood was used to it.

The second came. The Hound kicked a log into the fire with a scowl. "Fucking animals," he muttered.

The third, this one much closer. _Make them howl,_ she had told Nymeria, _come when night falls._ Anticipation gripped her. She moved closer to Gendry and rested a hand on Needle's hilt.

Another one. This time, Arya was sure that it belonged to Nymeria. Her wolf. She fought a smile, eyes darting to the tree line where she could see two glowing, golden orbs. Beric rose, and so did Thoros.

Nymeria broke through the bushes, slow but strong. She had a grace that Arya had learned to discover within herself, and though it wasn't exactly perfect, her size made up for it.

There was a sharp _shink_ as dozens of blades were drawn. "Get back, lads!" Beric ordered, but Arya stepped forward instead, letting go of Gendry's hand.

No less than twenty wolves broke through the tree line, all snarling and growling. Arya stepped to the centre of the brotherhood, who had now broken apart from fear or intelligence. Beric shot her a look; _it is not safe._

 _It is for me,_ she wanted to say. But he wouldn't understand. Not yet.

Anguy nocked an arrow. He aimed steadfast at the head of a small grey pup. Outraged, Arya whirled around. " _Nymeria_ ," she commanded of her direwolf, voice sharp as a whip crack. Nymeria acted.

No man had ever outrun one of Anguy's shots before. But her wolf was no man. She was a beast to be reckoned with; a soft streak of fur and meat.

In that moment, Grey Wind lived again.

The arrow snapped in her sharp, bloodstained teeth. Anguy stumbled back from either shock or humiliation. Arya couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face, but it died with Beric's next words.

"Attack!" He ordered.

They all readied their weapons. _No. No! Don't they see? How do I make them see?_ Arya hastily stepped forward, with her back to the wolves. "DO _NOT_ ATTACK."

They froze at once, swords dipping. Arya's breath caught when every eye in the camp fell on to her. But then she thought about Lady Crane, about how she had done better with twice this many people looking at her all the time.

 _You could be an actress,_ she had told Arya.

The wolves were all around her. Circling her and howling. She raised Needle, and her chin, addressing the Brotherhood properly. Even the Hound looked shocked. "You call me your princess," she said loudly, above the pack's noise. She shouted, in fact. "You call me your lady. And yet, how can I be princess when I am not home? How can you be soldiers when you are not serving your King?"

Nymeria brushed her fur against Arya's back. "Come north with me," she ordered. "The ravens have flown! Winter is here and with it come our enemies! _Will you let them come any farther?! Will you let them destroy what remains of us?!"_

With a roaring outcry they raised their swords. "Princess of Winter!" They yelled. "Wolf Queen! Lady of Ice!"

Her eyes found Gendry, who had raised his sword as well and was grinning at her. She had never been more proud to bear a title.

* * *

 **AN: And here we have chapter 5!**

 **Review, if it pleases you, my lords and ladies!**

 **Much love! xx**


	7. Chapter 7

SIX; Jon

Sansa sat across from him.

He had taken their Lord Father's solar for his own, which she had not protested to as her mother had had her own — which Sansa had since claimed. He was glad for it; tensions had risen between them since Tyrion's arrival. He did not want to do anything to aggravate her.

He had found much reading material in the solar, the likes of which Sam would probably have drooled over, and plenty of papers on sums, inventory sheets, letters, and personal notes which Jon had set aside to read at a later date.

For now, he had more pressing issues.

"Have you thought about it?" She asked.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. Gods, he hated it when she looked at him like that. Her glare was almost as powerful as Lady Lyanna's.

"I have."

She rose an eyebrow. "And?"

"And I don't know," he said. And then cringed, for suddenly his mind had strayed to Ygritte; of her bravery and her love, of the feel of her, willingly taking him as her own, of protecting him and trusting him...

That was the issue. Trust. Sansa did not want him to accept Daenerys Targaryen's offer, despite the fact that Tyrion had assured him he had spoken to her on the matter. She had seemed at peace with it then, he had told Jon.

She was not at peace with it, now.

Sansa sighed. "We can't have people around us who we don't know. If we can't trust them, then we definitely cannot wed them, Jon."

He almost scoffed. "And what of Littlefinger, Sansa? How is he? Insulting more dwarves? Starting up a whorehouse?"

She stared at him for a very long moment, almost owlishly, and then burst into laughter. Jon was surprised, but he said nothing as he waited for her giggling to subside. "I am sorry," she said. "I just... Most likely."

And then he chuckled as well. It was short lived, and seemed to wither away as the weight of his responsibilities returned to him. "What will you do about him?"

"What I do best," she shot back. "More importantly." She tapped the letter with her finger, which lay between them atop Father's old desk.

Jon did not want to talk about this. He did not want to divulge his fears or uncertainties. Not in front of her. He had sworn to protect her. It was his job to come to the conclusion on his own. Any potential marriage had nothing to do with her... Except it _did_. Even if it should not have. And it always would, because Sansa was Sansa and she would always intrude. Intentionally or not.

"We need her dragons, San," he said, still uncertain about the nickname.

It seemed to calm her, however. A hint of a smile passed over her face. "You bring up one of my main woes," she said. " _Dragons_ , Jon. She could burn Winterfell to the ground should she decide you are a threat. It is _not safe._ "

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "She also has an army, according to Tyrion; near one-hundred thousand strong including Dorne and the Reach. What do we have? Fifteen-thousand? Twenty? Not even in our dreams could we defeat such a large force."

Sansa frowned. "That is plainly obvious," she said. "Clearly we need to come to some sort of a compromise... An alliance, against Cersei, perhaps. But you do not need to marry her. It is not safe to bring someone like that into our family."

 _What family?_ Jon wanted to ask. _There's just me and you, now. Maybe I don't want to be so alone, anymore._

"Jon?"

"No." He met her eyes — crystal blue, like ice. Colder than her mother's could ever be. And he knew it was done. "I have listened to your views, Sansa, but if we are going to do something as drastic as forge an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, there needs to be some form of solidarity—"

"I cannot believe this! I _cannot_ believe you!" She had risen from her chair and was now pacing. "Even after all we've talked about, even after _Rickon_ , you still will not listen to me! What do I have to do?!"

"It isn't about you," he said, impatient. "Gods, Sansa, if I listened to the views of every one of my counsellors the north would be buried in ash by now!"

Sansa fumed. "I am your sister," she said. "And, apparently, the Queen. Which means it is my duty to advise you, and my opinions are meant to be held in higher regard than those of your counsellors. And yet you still _will not listen._ "

"I am listening!" Jon slammed his fist down on the table and shot to his feet. She jumped, eyes wide, and he knew that her own private torments had not yet abandoned her. "This is not the same... This is a matter of life or death."

"Which is precisely why I advise against the union!" She had regained her defiance and was looking down her nose at him, as her mother had done so oft all those years ago. "Gods, Jon! Robb never listened and look where it got him! At least he had a claim, anyway!"

Jon's breath hitched. A silence hung between them; a horrified, heavy silence that filled both of the chasms and cracks within them. _Robb_ , Jon thought. _If only you were here now. Your blood is the true blood of Stark. No one would ever doubt your claim to the north._

Sansa sighed. A white puff of air dissipated into nothing. "I'm sorry," she whispered, clenching her fists with wide eyes. "I didn't mean—"

"No one ever does," Jon muttered bitterly. "Please leave me, Sansa."

He could not stand to look upon her any longer. Such things were probably unworthy of bastards in her eyes, anyway.

"Jon," her voice turned sharp. "Stop acting like an insolent _child_. You are King, now. You have better things to worry about." She rounded the desk in an instant and took his hand. Her face changed, then, into something softer. The same softness he had seen in the godswood. "You are my brother. You were Robb's brother. You are a Stark of Winterfell, Jon. I don't care who says you aren't, even if sometimes it is me. You have to understand..." She took a deep breath. "No matter what I say, I will always love you, and you will _always_ be my brother."

Jon sighed. He did not know what to think. So often had Arya said the same thing to him. So often had she made promises and stuck by him, and yet where was she now? Was being a Stark truly so damaging? Was it even worth it? He straightened his back. _Yes. Of course it is_. "When the white walkers come, love will not save us. Being here will not save us. The only thing that can stop them is fire, steel, and glass. The only person in the world that can provide us with those things has just reached out a hand to help. How can I refuse, when I know that, happiness aside, it will benefit the north?"

"Do what you know is best," she conceded after a long moment. "I promised I would trust you. But that goes both ways."

He nodded. "I must excuse myself," he said, grabbing his sword. "Read over the letter again if you must..."

"I've already memorised it," she said dismissively. And then, abruptly, "What of Riverrun?"

That halted him. He had made her a promise. He had convinced the lords to fight for the south, as had she. They had done it together. But with Tyrion's sudden appearance he had been swayed to other things.

Jon bit into his lower lip. "I still mean to liberate it," he told her. "We will do what we can. Daenerys is not yet in Westeros, after all."

"Yes," Sansa agreed. "We have time."

* * *

Lady Lyanna sat on the railing of the stables, wrapped in furs with her dark hair braided back. She looked so much like Arya that for a moment, Jon let himself believe it was her there, waiting for him.

But Arya was gone. Gone or lost, and if the latter was true then she would not be so little anymore.

"My lady," he said.

She turned, and smiled when she saw him. It was odd, he thought, how quickly she had grown on him. But their companionship was one of ease, he had determined. And, for him, remembrance. "Your Grace," she hopped down from the rail and landed solidly on her feet.

"I have something of importance to discuss with you," he said, hand on the hilt of Longclaw. "If you would walk with me to the Godswood?"

She nodded, and so they made their way. The courtyard bustled with life. Squires trained alongside wildling men and women. The smithy was alight with flame. Once Jon had been a young boy, playing at swords with Robb and laughing when either of them took a blow.

Now Robb was dead, and with him had gone any chance of such a life.

Jon led Lyanna to the Heart Tree, where they stopped before the face, red sap leaking from its eyes and mouth. It had been carved by the Children of the Forest, according to Old Nan. And yet where was the proof of that?

"Does Bear Island possess a godswood?"

Lyanna scoffed. "Of course," she said, sitting opposite him on a stone. The one Sansa had occupied a week before. "Our godswood is said to be one of the finest of the north. Our Heart Tree smiles."

Jon nodded, fighting back a grin. He then removed Longclaw from its new sheath and held it between them. "Do you know this sword, my lady?"

Her eyes lit up with some form of recognition. Lyanna played her fingers over the blade, mindless of its sharpness. Jon almost warned her not to, before he remembered that it would be of no use. "I do," she whispered. "This was my uncle's sword, and then my cousin Jorah's. How is it that it came to be in your possession?" And then, as an afterthought, "Your Grace?"

"Jeor Mormont was attacked by a wight," Jon told her. "After I saved his life, he gave me Longclaw as repayment for what I'd done. He told me that Jorah had left it with him, at the Wall, before he'd gone into exile."

Lyanna nodded. "It's a good thing, too," she said quietly, almost regretfully. "Jorah was a traitor to our house."

"Do you remember him, much?" Jon did not, but Lyanna had been his kin.

"He used to bring me sweets," she said suddenly, her face flushed. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I—"

"You must not be ashamed," Jon said. "He was your family, Lyanna. Before he poached, he was naught but your cousin."

Lyanna nodded once again. "It is only... When I was small he would let me ride on his shoulders, and he would jest with my mother until they were both blue in the face from laughing. It is as you say, Your Grace."

"You needn't call me that," Jon told her. "I wouldn't be anything if not for you, Lyanna."

Her eyes shot to his own. Jon was startled to see that they were shining with unshed tears. She was so like Arya in that way; angry at herself for crying. Both believed such acts were beneath them.

She ducked her head to hide her tears, but Jon raised her chin. "You do not need to hide from me," he said. "I am your ally, and, I hope, your friend."

She swallowed. "Both are true."

Jon gave a brisk nod, before he turned his attention back to the sword. "Do you know what it says?" Lyanna asked of him.

"I am afraid I was never told."

"Then I will tell you now," she said. Her small fingers touched the hilt and so he offered it to her to hold. "These are the tunes of the First Men. 'Here We Stand', it reads."

Jon smiled. "It belongs to House Mormont," he said. "Take it as your own."

Her eyes widened, and for a moment her hand tightened around the hilt, before she shook her head. "No," she said, firm and resolute. "House Mormont stands with House Stark, as I have told you. Longclaw is yours, now, Jon Snow."

He hesitated momentarily before taking it back. "Lady Lyanna—"

"My sword is yours, and my life is yours." She smiled. "Do not make me regret my decision, _Your Grace._ "

* * *

Jon paced the battlements, Ghost at his side.

He had grown used to the solitude of walking alone. During his service at the Wall, Jon had spent plenty of time alone, staring down at the dark forest seven-hundred feet below. It had been such a bleak, sad sight. Now there was plenty to see; snow, and the wood, and the people.

 _His_ people.

Jon was not used to the thought. His father once told him and Robb that being warden of the north was much like being a father, except you had so many children, and you had to look out and care for each and every one of them.

Luckily, Jon had Sansa to help him with that.

Ghost sniffed the air and wagged his tail. He had been much more charismatic, of late. As though the light which had long been snuffed out of him had been re-lit. Jon wondered what had happened.

As he contemplated, the horn blew.

His heart stopped. From up here, Jon could see the south gate quite clearly, but beyond that he was blind. Could it be...?

But no. As the gates ground open, Jon saw a sweep of pale blonde hair atop the head of Brienne of Tarth, who slipped into the courtyard with her squire behind her. Disappointment ate away at Jon, but he held his head high and descended the steps to the courtyard.

Brienne dismounted. So did her squire. Soon Sansa was upon them, embracing them and exchanging greetings.

"Come inside," Sansa was saying as Jon reached them. "It's warmer. We will fetch you some soup and drink."

She summoned a servant to lead Brienne and Podrick away while she went to fetch them food and warm mead. "Better to let them warm themselves, first," she told Jon, as he walked beside her uninvited. She did not seem to mind.

They slipped through the halls toward the kitchens, with Ghost trotting along behind them. Sansa played with her fingers. "Jon?"

"Mm?"

"They haven't come home yet," his sister blurted. Her eyes widened at her own words. She seemed to take a childish shame from them, as though it was stupid and foolish to want something.

Jon knew the feeling.

"When the horn blew, I thought of Arya," he confessed.

The breath in her lungs left her. She stopped and sagged against the wall, momentarily loosing all sense of composure and propriety. It relieved Jon, to see that she could still be just as small and terrified as he.

"I want them returned to us," she whispered. "But... What if they never do?"

Jon rested his hand on Ghost's head. "Then we'll just have to be strong alone."

She nodded, though reluctantly, and followed him the rest of the way to the kitchens. Inside, the air was stifling. Bread was being pulled from the ovens, and meat roasted over a spit in the centre of the large room.

Jon remembered suddenly, the days when he and Sansa had been children. When she had been small enough to believe him to be just as much of her brother as Robb, they had often snuck down here to swipe snacks from the store rooms. Once he had even made her lemon cakes.

Sansa fetched two trenchers and poured them goblets of wine. Jon poured the soup into the bowls. Sansa grabbed two wheels of cheese.

"Do you think we're over feeding them?"

Jon smiled. "If they eat as much as you, then no."

With that, she whacked him on the arm and grabbed a tray. Jon tossed a bit of bread to Ghost and then grabbed the other, following his sister.

Brienne and Podrick were seated before the fire in Sansa's own solar, wrapped now in cloaks and furs. They lit up at the sight of the food, which Jon and Sansa promptly placed before them.

"I must apologise, my lady," said Brienne, between her stew and cheese. "For my failure to recruit the army of the Riverlands—"

"Nonsense, Brienne," Sansa smiled. "You did what I asked if you. It was no failure. Besides, Jon and I won back the north in the end."

Brienne nodded, though she did not look completely consoled. "I should have been there to protect you," she said.

"I can protect myself," Sansa said shortly. She rose from her seat and began to rifle through the chest at the end of her bed. Jon sat upon it, scratching his wolf behind the ears and watching the hearth pop and flicker.

Sansa pulled a dark grey, silken cloak from her chest. It was trimmed with what must have been the furs of a bear. "I made this for you, Brienne," she said. It was not unlike the one she had made Jon, but it had a difference in the pattern and stitching; embroidered with prowling bears and soft golden thread, which set it apart from the ones he and Sansa shared. "Winter has come and you need the extra warmth. You cannot go around in just your armour."

She smiled and handed over the cloak, which Brienne took delicately and looked down at with adoration. "Thank you, my lady."

"Thank _you_ ," Sansa said. She scooted closer. "I added golden trim around the edges to match your sword. Do you think the work is good? I—"

"Your sword," Jon said suddenly, rising to his feet. He had just noticed it, in fact, but there it was. Plain as day. "The hilt is in the shape of a lion."

Brienne blushed, oddly enough. "A gift from Jamie Lannister," she said quietly. "Oathkeeper is its name."

She drew it part way. It took Jon half of a second to recognise the blue ripples in the metalwork that signified Valyrian steel. He said as much, and Brienne nodded solemnly. "I am not sure where the metal came from..."

It clicked so suddenly for Jon it felt as though he had been punched. His stomach flipped and then sank. "Ice," he said, knowing in his heart — in every bone in his body — that it was the truth. How could it not be? Their family sword had never been returned to Robb, which meant that it had last been with the Lannisters. The blade was so clearly new, the steel so obviously lacking the purity of Ice, or Longclaw, which must mean that it had been reforged at some time.

Sansa's eyes widened. "Father's sword," she breathed. And then suddenly she drifted back onto her bed, wrapping her cloak around her. She did not seem to truly be seeing. "They murdered him with it."

 _Murdered_. It was such a harsh word. Jon winced, turning back to his sister's protector. "They melted down the sword of our house, the sword every King of Winter wielded, and put a lion's head on the hilt."

Brienne looked down at it, her lips contorted into a deep frown. "You take it," she said, after a long moment of consideration. "I cannot wield such a blade—"

"No," said Jon, and Sansa as well. Jon sighed and continued. "That sword is for the winter — or what remains of the blade... Needless, you must understand that it should only be kept in the hands of those whom are worthy. And I have never met a more worthy person than you, Brienne of Tarth."

He meant the words. It was like Longclaw all over again, and suddenly Jon understood the pain Lyanna must have felt; a ripping, as though he was tearing himself from his own family and his home, as though he was taking away a piece of the picture — never to be whole again.

His heart was heavy, but the tears in Brienne's eyes renewed him. "My Father would have been proud of you," he said quietly.

With that, Brienne knelt. "My sword is yours and my life is yours, my King; my Queen."

He knew in his heart her oath would be kept.

* * *

Jon sat before the fire, nursing a horn of ale. Tormund sat beside him, and Tyrion on the floor by Ghost. It was an odd picture, but it made Jon smile nonetheless.

Tormund drank from his own skin, grunting about grape water and goat's milk. Tyrion merely grinned at his comments and continued to drink his wine.

"Have you reached a decision yet, my friend?"

Jon looked to Tyrion, whom he, too, considered a friend, and frowned. "How can I? Everyone is telling me different things, Tyrion. And you have barely spoken to me at all. You know her best. What would you advise me to do?"

"Accept her terms," Tyrion said. "The marriage... I expect neither of you are seeking such a thing, and yet how else would you ensure the other's loyalty?" Tyrion snorted into his goblet. "It is frustrating for me, to know the both of you; the good and bad, to be so sure that this is what is right, and yet neither of you do."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry you feel that way."

Tyrion laughed. "No, you are not," he said. "I am sure you relish in my agony, Jon."

"You would," Jon sipped his ale to cover his grin. "Is she sane, then?"

The question seemed to take Tyrion by surprise. He blinked, and then leaned forward with renewed interest. "I have assured you sister that Daenerys is very much sane. True, she has been forced to make hard decisions in the past, but she is kind, and gentle, and merciful like past kings have not been. More than that, though, she is strong. She remains wary of those whom she believes she cannot trust, but she is more than willing to overlook the deeds of the father for the truth of the son."

"She believes that my father was her enemy?"

Tyrion shrugged. "I have told her the truth of Eddard Stark; of his honour, of his loyalties. I knew the man myself, and I can say with absolute certainty that he only rose up against Daenerys' father because he believed he had no other choice. Who wouldn't? His brother and father had been murdered, his sister kidnapped."

For whatever reason, Jon winced at the last bit. He recalled his dream, of his aunt sitting before the heart tree with a solemn smile on her lips. He knew in his very bones that she was good, and kind, and intelligent. How could someone who was clearly so strong let herself get taken?

"Your father was a good man, Jon," Tyrion said firmly. "And you... Seven hells, you just might be better."

Jon swallowed. He did not see how that could possibly be so; his father had been a wolf among men, and what was Jon? A man who had died. A man who had failed, countless times. Ygritte had died because of him. The Halfhand had died because of him. Hundreds of Northmen and wildlings had died because of him.

Tormund clapped Jon on the back. "I'm going to go take a piss," he said.

 _I'm going to lust after Brienne,_ was more likely. Jon shook his head an let the wildling go. Brienne could take care of herself.

Jon turned to his old friend. On a sudden whim, he lowered himself to the ground beside the dwarf. "I am a bastard," he told him. "I may be a king, but I am self-proclaimed."

"You are _followed_ ," Tyrion said. "I see it in the way they look at you, Jon. You are a hero, to them. I have even heard whispers..."

"Of?"

"They say you died, my friend, and returned."

Jon was silent. He turned his gaze to the hearth and sighed. "Hardhome is a village on the coast of the sea north of the Wall," he began. "I went there, to convince the wildlings to come south. We all knew of the threat of the dead, knew of winter, and yet... It was too late. The Night's King's army attacked us. Hundreds died, Tyrion, but I managed to save the rest. I saw the Night's King himself. I have never been more frightened."

"I probably would have shat my pants," Tyrion offered.

They both managed a laugh. Jon went on. "I took the wildlings south, and let them pass through the Wall. I allowed them the lands of the Gift... My brothers were not pleased with my decision. Four of them drew me out of my solar one night, claiming to have news of my uncle..."

His breath hitched. Suddenly he felt the fear all over again; deeply rooted and buried, a quaking fear that made him close his eyes with the remembrance of the pain, of the loss, of the betrayal.

"They stabbed me," he said. "In the chest, each of them. I died."

Tyrion was silent. When Jon turned to him again, he saw that the dwarf was utterly bloodless, leaning forward, wide-eyed in equal parts horror and fascination. "What did you see?"

 _I saw my father, standing before a crowd of people who demanded his head. I saw Robb, dying alone and surrounded by people. I saw Ygritte falling with an arrow in her heart. Over and over and over again..._

"Nothing," he said again. "There was nothing."

Tyrion sighed. "Who brought you back?"

"A red priestess by the name of Melisandre," he replied swiftly. "She has since been sent south, after I found out she burned the little girl Shireen Baratheon alive."

He recalled his pain, his anger, his betrayal when he had heard. The hurt in Davos's voice had broken him. He had wanted to strike her down there and then, and yet... The threat of the Long Night was larger. Circumstances were dire and Jon knew that she was at least willing to help.

"The red priests of Asshai are more trouble than they are worth," Tyrion reflected.

Jon shrugged. "On that score we can agree."

"She is beautiful, you know," Tyrion said suddenly. Jon turned his head with a raised eyebrow. Tyrion grinned impishly. "I truly think you will like her. Perhaps even come to love her."

"I already loved a woman," Jon dismissed. "She died in my arms, my heart with her. I do not think that your prediction is likely, my friend." He downed the rest of his ale and stood. "If you will excuse me."

"Of course, Your Grace."

He stopped mid-way to the door. "I thought we had already established that my name is Jon."

"I was only making sure." Tyrion smiled warmly and finished his wine.

* * *

The keep was silent. Jon loved and hated the quiet. He supposed he would never be free of the demons that haunted him from the land of the dead, though there were few that presented themselves in his daily life.

Silence was one of them.

Jon sought out the calm serenity of the godswood, walking silently through the trees. He had not come here to pray, yet, because he was not sure if the old gods would accept him after having been brought back by the Red God.

He would always keep the faith of the north. Never would he threaten to burn the sacred trees of his home like Stannis had.

They were one of the only reminders he had of his father, anyway.

Jon entered the clearing and knelt before the heart tree. _Forgive me for straying from my faith, I beg you. Forgive me for taking happiness in the death of the man who tortured my sister. Forgive me for cursing the name of my enemies._

 _Father... If you can hear me... Send me a sign, please. Please, show me some form of guidance. I cannot remember my dreams and I cannot rely on the folly my eyes form. I beg this of you, please._

 _Robb. Know that I miss you, still. Know that I am sorry for how things ended. Know that I tried to come to you, to aid you in your time of need. Know that I wept all night when I heard of your death, and lost a piece of myself when you fell. My brother, my pack... How I wish to see you once more._

Jon felt his first tear fall. He pursed his lips and began his last prayer, which had once been his first. _Mother. If you are dead, then you might hear me as I pray. Did you love me? That is all I want to know. Did you love me like Lady Catelyn loved Robb? Did you care? I am so alone, save for my sister. I am frightened of what the future holds. The dead approach and I have the answer that might stop them, but how can I know to trust her?_

His eyes shot open as the red leaves swayed, snow falling in their wake. There was a whisper in the wind, a whisper that spoke of protection and trust and safety, and Jon knew.

He looked back to the tree, and saw beside it, twirling around the roots themselves, coiling as though the weirwood was life itself; the beginnings of a patch of blue winter roses.

* * *

 **AN: *wipes away an actual tear* Favourite line. Hands down. Just... So bloody brilliant. I literally wrote this chapter ages ago, and so coming back to re-read that prayer sequence for edits... I literally started crying. My eyes were full of tears (they actually are now, as well). If you didn't think it was sad... Well, that's your opinion, isn't it? But to me it was just so flipping raw and just... That's Jon at his core, right there. So full of regret and insecurity and sadness. It's just so emotional.**

 **Anyway, I haven't updated in a week! I kind of briefly forgot this story existed, because I was so focused on other things. Sorry about that. But this chappie was nice and long, wasn't it? Review and tell me what you thought!**

 **Much love, my lords and ladies! xx**


	8. Chapter 8

SEVEN; Daenerys

 _Viserys was standing over her, his hands bloody and his head dripping with gold._

 _"You have woken the dragon, sweet sister," his voice was laced with malice, and pain, and betrayal. She knew what she had done to him. What he had done to her. "Now you must pay."_

 _"No," she said, trying to rise. But it was useless; the ground was slick with her blood and her entire body ached. It hurt to even breathe. "No, Viserys... You are no dragon."_

 _His fist collided with her cheek, and suddenly he was straddling her waist, bearing down on her with a hand around her neck. The air left her lungs and she choked. "I AM THE DRAGON," he hissed. "You are nothing more than a Dothraki slut!"_

 _Suddenly she was a mere three-and-ten, again — and so afraid. All strength that she had gained in the years since left her. All memory of conquering cities, abolishing slavery, and waking dragons out of stone was lost to her. She recoiled away from him, or tried to, but it did not work. She was weak and alone. She had no one. What as the use of fighting?_

 _He lifted her head and slammed it back down. She heard something crack, but then there was nothing..._

Dany shot up in her bed, clawing at the sheets and panting. Fear gripped at her heart, but slowly and surely she let it slide back into the recesses of her mind. Viserys no longer held sway over her; he was long dead and gone.

It had been years since she had dreamt of him. But now, as they approached Dragonstone, it seemed as though what little memories she had of him were returning to her in the night.

"Your Grace?"

Yara, beside her, had cracked an eye open. Dany hated to disturb her; the queen of the iron islands needed her sleep. She deserved it, having done all Dany had asked of her the night before. It had been an odd feeling; the touch of a person in that way. She was not sure that she liked it any longer, but she had discovered that even so she quite liked Yara.

"Go back to sleep," Dany ordered. "I am going to walk."

"I'll walk with you," Yara said, reaching for her axe.

Dany would not allow it. She shook her head. "No," she said. "I must be alone. I thank you for offering."

Yara nodded, and settled back into the sheets. Dany swiftly slipped out of bed, dressing herself in scarves and silks — black and red, the colours of her house — and wrapped a black shawl around her head.

They had docked on Bloodstone, one of the Step Stones near the Grey Gallows. The island was small, and quiet, and the people had welcomed then gladly. Her entire fleet had taken up all of the room they had on their shores, unfortunately. Dany still felt awful for showing up without any warning and stopping all trade between the island and the shores of Westeros.

She left her cabin and slipped through the halls. Beside her chambers were those of Missandei, and then White Rat, who had taken over as captain in Grey Worm's stead, Theon Greyjoy, and Varys.

Dany wished that Tyrion were still here, but he had broken away from the fleet to treat with the Starks more than a moon ago. She had yet to hear from him, which made her nervous in a way that she had not been for some time. Nerves seemed to be the only thing she could feel, of late; the prospect of taking back her birthright was alarmingly exhilarating, and yet whenever she thought of it she grew lightheaded. There was a certain fear which came along with it, in a way that she had not experienced with Meereen or Astapor or any of them — for this journey, and this war was the only one that truly mattered.

Perhaps that was selfish, given the alternative was a war of slavery, but in Dany's heart she knew that she would not truly rest until she sat upon the Iron Throne. Not because she necessarily wanted to; it was more of a need. An obligation to her dead family, and to herself.

Dany threw her shawl over her shoulder and ascended the steps to the terrace. The keep she was staying in was not overly large and quite bare, having been raided by pirates often enough. Apparently, her own influence had put a stop to that. And the influence of her dragons, of course.

There were no storms on this night; the only wind came from Drogon's wings. He circled above her, ever the loyal servant. She longed to ride him, but something held her back. A need to keep her feet on the ground. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

When she felt it, the face in her dreams always reappeared; pale, sorrowful and long. His eyes were dark like that of the Stranger's, but behind their sadness — a sadness they both shared — there was a warmth.

Snow was always falling around him. Dany only knew its likeness from her vision in the House of the Undying. She had found it to be beautiful. A gentle, soft kiss against her skin.

Still she did not understand it. These small dreams made her feel more than she had in years. It would have been comforting, if it had not been so terrifying. With Daario, she had worried over her lack of love. And yet she knew she loved Missandei, and she knew she felt something like kinship with Tyrion and Grey Worm.

She had once loved Jorah. Did she still love him? She had cried when he left. She had not cried when she left Daario. She wondered if it might have something to do with her father — with madness and loneliness.

She knew this could not be true. Though she had been hard to her enemies, it had been justice she had served. And she had taken no happiness in it unless it was well-deserved. The death of the Harpies had been relief, the Khals strength, the Masters justice, the slavers revenge.

Had she truly killed so many? Taken so many lives?

She found that her eyes were stinging, for there was such pain in her chest. A pain of grief and anger and remorse, for those who did not even deserve it. Why mourn for them? Or was she mourning for her lack of innocence?

What good was _innocence_ in _war_?

Dany dried her tears, defiantly, and turned to the sea. Waves lapped gently against the shore, and on the horizon she could see a great mass of...

Of ships.

Her eyes widened. Quickly she pushed off the terrace and flew down the stairs, doing her best to stay calm and composed. Who could it be? Who could be coming? Tyrion, with the northern fleet? Did the north even have one?

Yes, they must, she decided; Lord Manderly of White Harbour had many ships. But she had more.

If it was an attack, Tyrion might be with them. Her loyal Hand, tied up in some dark cabin with no wine to drink and no one to help him.

It took her five-and-ten minutes to find her rooms again, for in her distress Dany continuously took wrong turns. She pushed open her door. Immediately, Yara snapped awake. "There is a fleet approaching," Dany told her quietly. "Should it turn into an attack, will your men be ready to fight?"

"Always," Yara replied breathlessly.

"Ships approach," said a voice from the hall. Dany turned and saw Theon Greyjoy, standing a fair distance away with his head slightly ducked.

Yara was dressing. "We know, little brother," she said, sounding slightly exasperated. A horn blew from outside. Her eyes widened. "Wake the men."

Theon nodded shortly and stalked off to the chambers below. Dany gave Yara a departing inclination and then walked calmly upward, to where Drogon was flying.

Where Drogon _should_ have been flying.

Instead he was gone, as were her other children. Flying toward her was a stark white raven clutching something in its claw.

Her heart stopped. She had never been more afraid than she was in that moment; Drogon was gone, she knew. Somehow she knew it; in her heart and in her bones. In her very soul she knew that something — a tether that had been connecting her to her beloved dragon — had been severed.

She needed to find a way to get him back. To rekindle that flame.

She waited, for what seemed like years. As soon as it was close enough, quickly she reached up and grasped the raven, which cawed in a startled way as she undid the scroll.

 _Dragon Slut,_

 _I have your pets. All three. By now they will be chained beneath my decks, in the dark. Perhaps I will never let them see the light of day again. This is my decision, naturally, for the horn I possess and have now used allows me to control them entirely. Perhaps I will have them burn their mother. Perhaps I will have them burn each other. Perhaps I will be feasting on dragon meat, tonight. You no longer have power._

 _— The Father of Dragons, Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands_

The paper fell from her fingers and onto the sand. Yara was behind her, now. She picked up the letter and read it over. Her face went white. "Alright," she said, turning to Dany, who shook with her hands clenched, fingernails digging so far into her palms they drew blood. "We'll get them back and we'll kill my nuncle, do you hear me?"

Dany nodded. She had to believe the words, for they were the only good ones she had.

 _Kill him_ , she thought. _Burn him. Burn them all, burn them..._

But then she remembered Tyrion's words on her father. Quickly she stayed her thoughts. "Do not meet them on the sea," she told Yara, doing all she could to keep her head. "Wait for them to come to the shores. They are weakest on land."

Yara nodded. She went to meet Theon below. Dany turned to a newly roused White Rat and Missandei. " _Get your men to the beach,_ " she told the acting captain. " _And make sure any innocents are sailed safely away. Have three of your best men guarding the chambers of Lord Varys_."

White Rat nodded. He scurried off. "You should go with him," Dany told her scribe.

"No," Missandei said, to her surprise. Missandei bowed her head. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I will always stand beside you on the battle field."

A renewed warmth filled Dany. It helped her to focus. She leaned forward and grasped the hand of her loyal scribe and smiled shakily. "I know you will not fail me."

* * *

They rushed down to the shore when the ships had come close enough. She did not understand why he was coming at all, given he already had her dragons. But of course the answer came to her; Euron wanted Yara and Theon. He wanted her head. Madmen possessed their own logic.

Dany was not used to the loose sand. It slipped down into her boots as she ran, which annoyed her, but it was manageable. " _Unsullied!_ " She shouted at what remained of their ranks. " _Tonight you will fight as you have never fought before! My dragons have been stolen from me! Aid me in retrieving them, kill all who stand in your way. Do not show mercy._ "

She repeated the orders with slight modification to the Dothraki, making sure to leave out the fact that her dragons had been stolen from her; they were the only things keeping the Dothraki truly in line. If some other person had them... A man... She shuddered at thought.

The wind picked up. Dany stood at the front lines, unsure. In every battle she had faced, she had always had Drogon beside her. Ready to smite her opponents, to aid her in escape. She had never fought without him, and she found that she did not know how.

Dany let her shawl fly away.

Her ancestor had stood on these shores, she remembered. Daemon Targaryen had conquered them and proclaimed himself King of the Stepstones and Narrow Sea, which had aided Daenerys in convincing the lords to let them stay. But Daemon had been a warrior; commander of the goldcloaks, battle-worn and strong. And Daemon had had a dragon; Caraxes.

Dany had no sword. She had no dragon. She had only fear and anger in her heart to fuel her onward.

" _Give me your arakh_ ," she ordered of the nearest Dothraki screamer. He obliged, and unsteadily she took the blade to wield.

It was heavy, but lighter than a sword. She had only held Viserys' borrowed blades before, and all had been long and dragging. This was light, the hilt carved of bone, and the steel shining in the morning sun.

She gripped the blade tighter, ready to use it if it came to it. She had never killed a man by such a means before, but for Drogon, for Viserion, for Rhaegal, she would. She would do anything she had to in order to get them back.

Th ships were fast. They made their way to the shores and anchored. Dozens of men slipped down from ropes and ladders, landing in the shallows. They made no sound. Their faces were blank. All except one.

Euron Greyjoy was broad of shoulder and brimming with confidence. He grinned when he saw her, and spread his arms wide, shouting something she could not hear over the wind. More men slipped down from his hundreds of ships until they were facing a true army. Dany had her Unsullied, her Dothraki, and what former slaves had come to bear arms for her. She did not have the Dorish or Tyrell forces of yet; she had meant to meet them in Highgarden, after re-claiming Dragonstone.

There was no time for that, of yet.

"Surrender your arms," Euron yelled, now closer.

"Surrender my dragons," she retorted, "and it may not come to battle."

Euron laughed. "I might have given you this fleet," he said, "had you agreed to marry me. Instead I was slighted! Imagine that! And so, now, my men fight for the _true_ queen of Westeros; Cersei Lannister."

"Has she let you into her bed yet, nuncle?"

Yara's voice rang out against the wind. She stepped into the water, hair flying, axe in hand and her brother just behind her. The Greyjoy men looked unsure, with their boots dug into the sand. No, land was not their strong suit.

"Yes," Euron reported happily, as though nothing was wrong at all. "How good it is to see you, my niece. It will be a pleasure to remove your head from your shoulders."

"It is not my head that will be removed today, Euron Greyjoy," she hissed. And then, to the men behind her uncle, "You all should have followed me! I am your rightful queen, not this impostor! Not the man who murdered my father! You are a bunch of craven cunts! It is folly to call you 'Iron Born'!"

The men bristled at that, but said nothing. Dany found herself wondering if they could speak at all; every man she had ever known would have roared their protests until they were blue in the face.

Dany looked at Missandei. "Get to higher ground," she ordered, this time not accepting protest. "I would not see you die."

Yara turned to her men. "FIGHT FOR YOUR TRUE QUEEN!" She roared, raising her axe. "CHARGE!"

With that the Iron Born ran into the awaiting ocean. Dany could only watch in horror as the men, who could have been brothers in another life, clashed. Swords were swung, axes imbedded in skulls... The air was filled with the cries of the dying and drowning and the water was soon stained with red.

Dany turned to her own men. " _FIGHT FOR ME! TO THE SEA!_ "

The orders came out in Valyrian, but the Dothraki seemed to understand. With thousands of screams, she ran into the waters with White Rat at her side.

There was fighting and death and water all around her in an instant. She could not hear anything over the screaming and wind. The Dothraki chopped men in half with ease. There were so many that soon people were climbing over the bodies of Euron's men, and yet there were a fair few of her own as well.

Terror filled Dany. She had only ever been in a situation like this after the death of Hizdar Zo Loraq, as the Sons of the Harpies had attacked. Then there had been sand and spears and blood. Now, no one even tried to attack her.

She struggled through the water, her leathers and boots soaked.

It was then that she saw Euron, ascending the rope ladder to hide on deck like the craven he was. She scowled, feeling her blood run so hot she was surprised the water around her did not boil.

 _How dare he? How dare he steal my dragons and run? I will tear him apart!_

She ran for him, using a different rope to ascend so that he would be unawares of her following. Climbing was harder than she had expected it to be. Soon enough her hands were blistered and bleeding and raw, and her muscles ached.

She pulled herself over the starboard side, panting. Her weapon went first, and then she was on deck.

So was Euron Greyjoy, as well as six of his men. All seven of them were broad and built, not as strong as Drogo, but there were enough of them for her breath to catch. Quickly she scrambled to her feet, grabbing her _arakh_. "Give me back my dragons," she ordered, pointing the blade squarely at his chest.

Euron laughed boomingly, one green eye and one brown bright with mirth. "That will not be happening today, Daenerys Stormborn," he said.

How foolish had she been to fall into this trap? Below her were any men that might have aided her. Euron had six, all clearly filled with bloodlust. Dany had nowhere to go.

In a moment of utter desperation, she let her emotions take hold of her. "DROGON!" She roared, hoping he would hear her from where ever he was. Hoping he would come to save her as he had always done before.

"No, Daenerys," Euron said. "Do you see that horn?" He pointed with his hammer, toward the helm. There it was.

A monstrous thing; twisted and crudely carved, coated in blood and crustaceans as though it had been retrieved from the bottom of an ocean. Dany's breath left her throat, and Euron took notice. He chuckled, approaching her. "That horn, once blown, gives me all control of your dragons. It took me only _minutes_ to chain them up and drag them below, for they did not put up any fight at all. You think you are special, because you have them? This is false; you are just some arrogant slut who has had too much luck. You do not know what it means to understand _pain_ ," he lunged, unexpectedly. Dany's immediate reaction was to swing her blade across his abdomen, but he sidestepped and stuck her across the face. " _I will teach you these words._ "

Dany had only stumbled back a foot, for there was no room to go back any farther. If she did, she would fall over the side and surely die from the shallow impact. "And you know them?" She demanded of Euron. "You, the man who murdered his own brother to obtain a crown? Do not play the victim with me, Greyjoy."

Euron chuckled. "You act as though you come from better stock," he said. "From men who did not fuck their own sisters and put abominations in their bellies. Men who were not mad, aroused by fire. I bet your Father would have fucked the flames if they would not have burnt off his cock."

Dany stumbled as he lunged again. His weapon narrowly missed her ear. _If I look back, I am lost._ "YARA! I NEED YARA!" She called to her fighting men. Her side was winning, she was pleased to see, but Euron's men were putting up a good fight.

"You keep calling for people to save you," Euron observed. "Why is this? Can you not fight for yourself?"

"I _can_ ," she said sharply, holding up her back and chin, the way she had done with Khal Jaqqo.

"Then fight me, dragon queen," he taunted. "We will see who is dominant."

His men cleared away, making room for her to duel their master. Dany did not want to, but she knew she had to. Otherwise, Euron might kill her on the spot. Her only hope was that Yara would have heard her.

Euron left her no time to compose herself. He was on her in an instant, hacking at her with his hammer. Dany managed to dodge the first four blows with her _arakh_ , but the blunt of the fifth one struck her in the wrist.

Her blade clattered out of her hand.

Dany stared at Euron in shock. Never before had she been bested so easily, and yet she had never fought in this way before. Why had she not bothered to learn?

His eyes glimmered has she cradled her surely broken wrist. The pain was so great, but she would not cry out. "It would seem that the Drowned God favours me," Euron commented.

"Does he?" Said a voice.

Yara's knife was on Euron's throat in an instant. She pulled him back, while her brother grasped the hammer from their uncle's hand and threw it away from them.

The six guards were upon them. Theon did his best to hold them off, but he was only one man and Dany could tell that he was struggling with just fighting at all. Soon, thankfully, three more Iron Born and one Dothraki were fighting beside him.

Four of Euron's men were dead, but one still lived. To all of their surprise, he ran straight to the side and jumped off.

"Craven," said an Iron Born.

Yara gripped her uncle by his wrists. She dragged him back, away from Dany, who rose to her feet and re-claimed her _arakh_ with the hand that was not throbbing. "You have killed my men tonight," she told him, voice firm and strong. "You have made a fool of yourself, Euron Greyjoy."

"I think not." And with a cry he pulled himself out of Yara's grip. The two struggled, and eventually Yara was thrown away with a bloody nose. That did not stop her, of course. She leapt up onto her uncle's back and bit at his ear.

It tore away. He screamed.

Dany readied her blade. With a sharp _skink_ it struck him across the stomach, cutting into his skin and tearing his leathers in two. But it was not deep enough. He bled, profusely, but he did not fall.

It was in that moment, with Yara clinging to him and Theon dragging the bodies and the cries and screams of the warriors below, that Dany heard hit; a dreadful crack as the ship next to them practically burst apart, showering them with splinters.

Viseron soared, graceful and deadly. He circled the air above them. Through his pain Euron began to laugh unboundingly. His niece cracked his jaw with her fists. "Allow me to kill him." She might as well have commanded.

Dany should not have hesitated. She should not have let her thoughts get the better of her, but with one of her dragons free and her mind playing back to the burning Khals and the crucified masters, she paused.

Her dragon swooped down from above and breathed fire.

Suddenly all was wreathed in flame. Yara threw up her hands to stay the heat, but Dany did nothing. She could not breathe.

 _Viseron is attacking me. He means to burn me._

Why? Her dragons knew as well as she that it was impossible for her to catch flame. Thank the Gods his fires had been directed far enough away. Hope sprung up inside of her; perhaps Viseron was fighting it...

"Yara, blow the horn!" Theon yelled.

Dany turned back to her fellow queen. They both seemed to realise at the same time that Euron was gone; he must have escaped in the commotion... Dany fumed. She marched straight toward the horn and made to press her lips to it, before some great, heavy mass threw her away.

No, not heavy at all; a child. Wearing scraggly clothes and a stained tunic, and staring up at her with wide eyes. "I would not do that," he whispered. "I have heard Euron speaking of it. The man who blew it grew ill, as did all who came before him."

Dany paled. Her gaze shot upward, to where Viseron was busy smiting that of her fleet which remained docked. There were perhaps four-hundred ships on fire. Cursing, Dany shot to her feet. "Order the men to retreat," she shouted to Yara, who did not seem very pleased at the prospect, nor at her uncle's escape, but nodded.

Dany turned to the boy. "Thank you," she said. "I will reward you, I promise."

"If you live," retorted the boy wisely. He stood and brushed off his clothes. "You must get your dragons back. Euron said that he means to steal them. The man riding the White One is a mute; he cannot command it. You must re-claim the black one."

Drogon. "Where is he?!"

"Below decks," said the child. "Sleeping. I will make sure the ship is cleared away."

She nodded, full of both dread and hope, sprinting across the deck and down the creaking stairs to the store rooms below. But here there were no cabins, no kitchens... Merely a gigantic cavern-like room, supported across the ceiling by heavy beams. The walls were lined with iron chains; five of them. One for each of Drogon's legs and his neck, as well.

This ship had been built just for him.

Dany's breath caught. She descended the spiralling steps the rest of the way and rushed to her child. He looked more beautiful than she had ever seen him; his black and red scales glistened in the dim light, and his hot breath made the air simmer. Perhaps he was more precious now that she knew what he meant to her. What if felt like to lose him — to truly lose him.

She approached, slow and quiet like she had done in the days of his rebellion. She knew how to be cautious with him.

"Drogon," she whispered. "Drogon, wake."

He did not stir. Impatient, Dany stepped closer and reached out to touch him, before drawing back in utter fear; his eyes had opened, but they were not the deep black colour she had come to know.

They were as white as snow.

"Drogon," she breathed, horrified. "Drogon, hear me. Listen to me. Follow my voice..."

He snorted, head quirking to the side. Dany's stomach flopped. She darted around him to undo the chains that bound him. "I am your mother," she said as she worked, fishing around in the lock with one of the pins from her hair. "I am your mother and you are my child. Remember that. Remember me. I gave you life, Drogon. I gave you a name. A horn cannot take you from me. It cannot unmake our love."

He made a soft sort of purring sound as she ran her hand along his scales, circling around to get to the other side of his massive body. She had to be careful.

"You have saved me many times," she told him. "Now it is my turn to save you."

She undid the last latches on his feet and then, summoning all of her courage, she mounted him. Drogon tensed beneath her. She could feel his anger, his pride, rippling through his scales. She leaned forward with one hand on the collar around his neck and whispered to him. "You are no slave. You are a dragon. You are mine."

She let the chains fall. Drogon did not have room to move his wings, so he could not yet feel his freedom. Dany stroked him gently. "Come back to me," she ordered. "Come back to me, Drogon."

He reared, trying to buck her off. Dany just managed to hold on. She would have been furious had she not known it was not truly him doing this, but... But madness. Had this had been how her father was in his last years? Hanging onto nothing, with no true reason or feeling or knowledge but insanity?

Dany felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. But she would not cry; she had to be strong. She had to be brave for him. For all of them.

" _Come back to me,_ " she felt the need and the sadness, and he succumbed.

With his roaring cry her heart soared. She knew that he was free of Euron's treachery. She held on as he readied himself, and then, " _Dracarys_."

Fire burst forth. The entire starboard side of the hull was blown apart. In came water which drowned out the flames, but Dany did not stay for long. Drogon kicked off.

And then they were flying.

The air was cool against her skin, which caused gooseflesh to run up and down her arms. She held on with a renewed ease as her precious dragon flew, rounding the curve so that they were once again facing the now slowly sinking, steadily burning ship.

The horn still stood. "Dracarys," she said once more.

She suspected greatly that Drogon did not truly need to be told. He had heard the call of the horn, and they both knew what it had done. Vigorously she watched it burn, heart slamming against her ribcage.

Her dragons called to her. Viseron reared in the sky. The Iron Born that must have mounted him was thrown off. She watched him fall. She watched the sea swallow him. She did not see him re-surface.

Rhaegal's cry was the dimmest. She turned, only to see the green dragon mounted on the top of the keep where her people had been staying. His wings flapped, causing the very waters of the ocean to fold in on themselves.

Pride filled her. Drogon grew hot as more fire burst from his lungs, burning the remains of the fallen ship. Then there was nothing.

"You will not be caged," she said.

* * *

Drogon landed on the sandy shores with ease.

Dany slipped off of his back, reluctant and yet poised. On the beach, her men — still in the thousands — were stacking the bodies of the dead to be burnt. The Iron Born forces had been crushed, and now Dany had an armada to replace what she had lost.

Yara was on the beach, standing over the mutilated, half-burnt body of Euron Greyjoy.

"Rhaegal must have done it," Dany told her easily. "I suspect he tried to ride him, but Drogon and Rhaegal have always been strong-willed."

Yara nodded. She was panting and bloody, but utterly victorious. Not dissimilar to the way she had looked after she had made Dany cry out in pleasure the night before. Dany wanted to embrace her, then.

But Yara had already spotted her brother.

Theon was limply hanging from the arms of one of the Dothraki — the same one that had aided him in fighting of Euron's men on the deck of the head ship. Yara cried out, running to him and kicking up dirt in her wake.

Dany followed.

Theon was alive, though his breathing was shallow. The entire left-half of his face was red and blistered, and there was a deep cut on his shoulder. "He will be fine," she told Yara, placing a comforting hand on the other woman's shoulder.

But Yara shrugged her off as she cradled her brother. "He is like this because of you," she spat. "He was only trying to help one of your men out of the water — I saw it! Then the flames came down and he went under... I thought he was dead..."

There were tears streaming down her cheeks. Dany frowned. "I am sorry—"

"Theon! Theon, wake up!"

At his sister's command, Theon's eyelids fluttered upward. "I'm fine," he said.

"Fetch a healer," Dany called to one of her fellow queen's soldiers. The man nodded grimly and ran off. Ten minutes later, he came back with the Maester of the Gallows, who clutched in his hands a heavy crate of healing supplies.

"Your Grace," he said breathlessly, for he was old and the climb was long. "I am surprised you are not with the girl..."

Dany's breath caught in her throat. "Girl? What girl?"

"The scribe," explained the unknown Maester. "She passed, Your Grace. Killed with a stray spear."

He said the words without feeling, but for the first time in so long — for the first time since the death of her beloved Drogo — she was truly overcome with emotion. The tears which she had been forcing back for so long were released to steam freely from her eyes, and her heart broke into thousands of little pieces.

She ran, then. Damning propriety and swearing conformity all to the seven hells. An Unsullied directed her to the Maester's tower, where she found her.

Quietly laying, as though she could be asleep. Her hands were folded over the spot where the spear must have struck her. There was a stain of red blood running from her chest to her abdomen. Clearly, the Maester had tried to save her life.

But he had failed.

 _Missandei, my friend..._

* * *

 **AN: A long chapter, mates. I think it might be the longest of the story so far! What fun! But, I hate it. I loved it when I first wrote it, and now... I dunno. I feel like the show is definitely going to go a different way with this, but Euron/Dany are definitely going to fight. I feel like... It just isn't good. Not my greatest chapter.**

 **Review, my lords and ladies, and tell me what you thought! Like, seriously. Review this chapter. Speak to me of its many flaws.**

 **Much love! xx**


	9. Chapter 9

EIGHT; Bran

The shock had still not left him. In fact it had only grown more prominent as the days went by. Bran could not recall a time when his world-view had been so utterly altered; so strangely shifted. Not even with the discovery of the three-eyed-raven had he been this closely disbelieving, for Jojen had been there encouraging him on his journey, telling him truth from lie and standing by him.

Now there was Meera to do that, but she did not know what to say and had not spoken since Bran had told her what he had seen.

Until now.

She was stoking the fire, eyes wide still, when her head shot up. "Does this mean he's King of Westeros?"

That had occurred to Bran, as well. "I think it does," he told her, quiet. "He's older than Daenerys Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar, and a man to boot. His claim is far stronger than her own."

"Not if he's a bastard," Meera countered.

Bran nodded. "That might be so, but... She didn't seem as though she had been kidnapped. There were no chains binding her, no guards at her door; just three men to protect her and two handmaidens to help her through her labour. My aunt was a skilled rider and, if word is to be trusted, was even good with a blade as well. I doubt that she could not have escaped."

Meera watched the flames flicker. "Go see, then."

Bran frowned. "What?"

"Go see," Meera stood, approaching him. She dragged him unwillingly to the weirwood tree, which they had remained at. "You're the Raven now, you said. See if they loved each other. See if your brother is king."

 _Cousin_ , whispered a small part of his mind. But Bran knew that was not true. It could never be true; Jon was his brother, no matter what. He loved Bran and Bran loved him, not as cousins but as _brothers_.

"I've tried," he told Meera, glaring. She truly did not seem to understand it at all; the visions did not just come, they would not bend to his will. He had to learn to ask, to be patient, for impatience and curiosity had always been his downfall.

Summer had died because of him. And Hodor. And the three-eyed-raven, and his Father, and Robb and Robb's wife and all the rest. He'd lost his legs because of it and Meera had lost everything, which somehow hurt more than anything ever had.

"It won't work?" Meera asked, kneeling beside him. She was frowning again.

"It doesn't want to show me," Bran clarified, though what 'it' was, he did not know. All he knew was that something was blocking his Sight. Something did not want him to see...

Meera's gaze sharpened. "Try again," she ordered.

"Meera—"

"Please, Bran," she was beside him in the snow again, gripping his arm. "We must know everything we can before we tell your brother."

"We can't." The words tumbled out of us mouth with such conviction and hopelessness. He knew it was so — not only to spare Jon's feelings but also... "We cannot cross the Wall. You heard my uncle; enchantments hold it up. Most likely the same ones that made the cave safe. When the Night's King marked me, he broke them for us. What will happen if we go south?"

Meera paled. "It... It hasn't faded, yet?"

"A little," Bran lifted his sleeve, causing Meera to jerk away as though it would spread. "Perhaps it will go away with time. At least we know the connection is fading."

She nodded. "Try the tree, Bran," she said. "Maybe... Maybe you'll see how to get rid of it."

He pursed his lips, but nodded, crawling over to the trunk with a resolution in his heart. Bran steadied his breathing, heart pounding madly, and placed his cold hands into the equally frozen bark.

 _There were knights all around her. A horn was blowing soundingly. Hooves dug deep into the muddy grassland, and kicked up ground as they went. Dirt sprayed. She could smell it in the air._

 _The Knights of the Vale had rallied to her cause. She had done this. She had saved Jon. But there was still Petyr to deal with. Always had had some problem._

 _Sansa smiled to herself as she watched the Bolton men die; as a sea of silver and blue collided with brown and red and black. It was a sweet sight. Perhaps now she would get the recognition she deserved. Perhaps now they would understand that she was not just some silly little girl, but a woman whom had seen her world fall._

 _There was Jon, emerging from the fight. He was so bloodied, she worried he might be truly injured. But no; then he was running. Straight toward Ramsay. Fear gripped her as she watched his minimised form tear across the battlefield. What if Ramsay took him? Trapped him? What if she lost her only family? And, the worst of her fears, the most undeserving; what if Jon killed Ramsay before she could?_

* * *

 _"Do you take this man?"_

 _"I take this man." It was the wisest decision she had ever made. She could feel it in her very bones, for she loved him and he loved her. What else could they do? This was the only way to make her Father see... Make him understand what she had been saying for months; Robert was cruel and arrogant and only wanted her for her woman parts. He did not see her as Rhaegar saw her. He did not love her the way Rhaegar loved her._

 _Rhaegar was gentle and sweet and solemn. Nothing like that drunken son of a lord. It did not matter to her that he was a prince. She was not some-lovelorn girl with half of her wits about her, either. She knew that he was married. She knew the risk that she was taking, but she could be happy, living with Rhaegar, raising her children alongside Elia's, should she ever have any. It had been a simple choice to make. A simple life to choose._

 _"Do you take this woman?" The man joining them in marriage was old — like to die within the next few moons. And yet he had been so willing to wed them before the Heart Tree, so happy to see people of such pure love. Such a bond was rare, he had told her._

 _"I take this woman." Rhaegar smiled at her. His smiles were rare and precious. They made her feel warm, happy, and safe. He understood her. Wanted her not for her beauty alone but her bravery. Her strength. Her intelligence. All of her mattered to him, not just the parts that could make a suitable heir. But no one would understand._

 _It was a bitter kiss on her end when they joined, but quickly it changed into something better; an innocent sort of bliss which warmed her to the bone._

 _She had never been more overjoyed._

* * *

 _The pain was sweet, invigorating, and lasted a long time. Within a moon's turn she knew she was with child._

 _Lyanna lay in their shared bed, running her hand over her stomach. It had always been slightly bigger than that of the other ladies'. She'd never felt pretty enough as a young girl, and so she had hardened herself against her doubts and turned that which shamed her to muscle._

 _But even still... She could sense something beneath it. She could feel the little life blooming within her, even if it was not yet showing. How sweet it would be, when she could hold him for the first time... How wonderful to see him grow and love and laugh..._

 _Would he have Rhaegar's laugh, or her own? Rhaegar's was lighter, more melodic. Perhaps it would be a combination of them both; bright and sweet and joyous._

 _Would he look like Rhaegar?_

 _A sudden and illogical fear gripped her. She shot upright, breathing heavily. Brandon had not yet written back to her, what if her raven had never arrived? What if her family never understood? Would Rhaegar die in a foolish war? Would she? Would her babe?_

 _Lyanna worried her lip, slipping out of bed to seek him out. She needed his comfort more than she needed to preserve her pride._

 _She found him, standing by the highest window of the tower. When he saw her, his somber face changed into something more warm and kindly. Lyanna rushed forward and enveloped him in her arms, resting her head against his chest so that she might hear his heart beating._

 _He was alive._

 _She was alive._

 _Their babe was growing._

* * *

Bran jerked back from the tree with great force, panting. Meera was beside him in an instant, practically cradling him. "What did you see?" She asked. "What was it?"

"My Aunt Lyanna," Bran told her. "And her _husband_ , Rhaegar Targaryen."

Meera nodded, dazed, almost as though her entire world had come crashing down around her. "She loved him?"

"Greatly." He himself was frowning. The news was troubling, but at least... At least, if he told Jon, he could explain that his brother was not a bastard. That he had never been a bastard, not truly. That he was a king.

"What happened in them?" Meera asked, eyeing the tree and the face that adorned it.

Bran pushed himself into a sitting position. The effort caused him to grunt in pain. "It was different this time," he said. "It wasn't even like I was there, or like I could effect anything. It was just happening, as though I was watching it through her eyes. They married on the Isle of Faces, and then she was with child... They were only fleeting images."

The crease between Meera's brows grew prominent in her confusion. "That's never happened before?"

"No," Bran said. "I don't know why... Why it would be like that."

Something changed in her face. "Alright," she said. "The fucking trees are blocking what you see. That's obvious. Maybe they don't trust you, yet. Now, get into the sled. We have to get to the Wall."

"Meera, I told you—"

"You said we couldn't go beyond," Meera said. "That doesn't mean we cannot be there itself."

* * *

The portcullis rose at a painfully slow place, grinding and groaning. Bran was nervous, to tell it true. He knew there was a great chance that Jon would not be there, given what he had seen in his dreams the night before... But still, what if he was? What if, for once, Bran's visions had been a falsehood?

What if he got to not only lay eyes upon his brother once more, but touch him? Hold onto him? Tell him all that he had done and have Jon return the favour?

The idea warmed him, but he knew somehow in some way that it could not be so. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

A light flickered at the end of the long ice tunnel. A torch, Bran realised. Meera grabbed the back of the sled and began to push, so that they might meet whoever it was that approached. _What if it is Jon? What if it is my brother?_

But it was not. This man was tall and lank, with half-dead brown eyes and stringy brown hair. His forehead was large and his skin was pale, and he looked not to have slept for many nights. Bran instantly felt sorry for him.

"'o are you?" His voice was gravelly and low, but not unkind.

"I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell," Bran announced, trying to sound confident as he head heard Robb be, before he had left home. "This is Meera Reed of Greywater Watch."

The man stared at them for a moment, glowering, before he rolled his eyes. "You damned Starks," he muttered, turning around. "Never enough of you, are there? You've got to show up and take away our best fighter, and then bring in another high lady for all the lads to drool over... Well, are you comin', or not?"

Bran blinked. He looked to Meera, who nodded determinedly and followed after the man. "Who are you?" She asked, though there were more important questions — such as which Starks he was referring to and when they had left and why.

"Eddison Tolett," he told them. The gates lowered again. Bran watched, almost satisfied, as the view of the world beyond the Wall was closed off. "Most people call me Edd."

"You know my brother?"

"Aye, I know him," Edd kept walking, not even bothering to look back. Embers fell and died on the ground. "Jon's a good man. Word came this morning that he's re-claimed the north from that bastard Bolton. I reckon you'll be pleased about that."

He was, though worried as well. Of course, if Jon had written word to Edd to tell him of the victory, then he must be alive. But what of the sister Edd spoke of? Was it Arya? Or Sansa? And what would he say once they reached him?

Would they trust his words, or think him mad? Would they tell him he had seen too much, lost too much, and so his mind had resorted to playing tricks and running wild?

No, they would not. Not in truth. Bran knew that in his heart. He knew it like he knew snow fell downward, like he knew water froze when it was cold, like he knew Father and Mother and Robb were dead, and Arya was likely lost to them all.

"I'll send a raven to your brother," Edd said, once they had reached the end of the tunnel. "You can travel south with three of our best, most trusted men. Perhaps I'll escort you myself."

"No," Bran said. The three of them stopped in the middle of the courtyard, which was quiet and slim-staffed. Edd frowned. "It's not that I don't trust you," Bran assured him, "I just... Can't go south."

"There a reason for that?"

"Yes," Bran said, "but it is not one I can share."

Edd rolled his eyes again. He shoved the torch into a nearby sconce. "You Starks are full of secrets," he muttered. "I am your brother's friend, you know. I'll keep you safe 'till he gets here, if that's what you want."

"Thank you," Bran said, sincere. It had been so long since he had been this close to home, near a man who knew his brother — who knew the man he had become better than Bran himself did. It took great strength for him to hold back from interrogating Edd to no end.

Meera eyed him. "And me? Will I be safe?"

"Aye," Edd nodded. "In the Lord Commander's chambers. They've got locks and bars on the doors and irons over the windows. Most of Jon's things are still there — not that he had much to begin with. Now, get on, I'll help you get him up there."

Meera nodded. She grabbed Bran by the legs and Edd grabbed him under the shoulders. Somehow they managed to haul him upward, away from the gawking of the black brothers and the cold, sharp air.

Indeed, Jon's chambers were quite bare. In the corner was a bed, covered in furs, and an empty hearth. There by the window was a large desk covered in parchment and scrolls, candles, and a few heavy tomes. Bran recalled that his brother had often liked to read just for the sake of reading, and would often seek the solitude and confinement of the library tower. Robb would always drag him back down when they found him, and the two would play at swords.

Jon was better. Bran had seen that much with his own eyes, not even through visions but instead when he had been so close. Gods, he should have gone to Jon then. He should have... He could have changed everything.

Edd and Meera set Bran down upon the bed. Meera was panting. It occurred to Bran that she had not properly rested since... Gods, had he ever seen her in a bed? "You take it," Bran said, making to haul himself off.

Meera grabbed his arms and pushed him back down. "No," she said. "I don't need it."

"Meera," Bran frowned. Didn't she understand how much he cared? Didn't she understand that he loved her, more than anything? More than this bloody bed, more importantly, even though the furs smelt of his brother, what little Bran could remember of his smell. It was comforting, and warm, but Meera needed it far more. "You've dragged me for miles, you've only slept on rock and mud and grass for the last three years... Just take it. Please."

She stared at him for a moment, and pursed her lips. "Alright," she said. "Just for tonight."

He ceased his place with Edd's help and made his home on the ground. Meera gave him the topmost blanket and the pillow. Bran held it, thinking to himself that Jon had slept here, and maybe even one of his sisters... Yes, there was a faint feminine smell to it...

"Edd," he called to the man who had helped him so much already, in such a short space of time. "Which one of my sisters was it? How long has it been since...?"

"A few months," Edd said quietly. There was something soft in his expression; some form of sympathy. "And it was Sansa."

 _Sansa. Sweet Sansa who loves songs and stories, and loved to sew and sing. And yet she has been beaten down and changed into steel. No longer sweet, but hardened. A Lady in a way she never thought she would be._

"Thank you," he breathed.

Edd nodded shortly and swept from the room. He would come back later, Bran guessed, when his duties as Lord Commander were no longer so heavy.

 _Lord Commander._ That was another thing. Last time Bran had seen his brother, he had been fighting at Craster's Keep. That had been about two years ago, now. Perhaps longer. And now his brother was, what? Lord of Winterfell?

Thank the Gods for Jon.

"Bran," Meera was watching him from her perch on the bed, staring owlishly. Her cheeks were flushed with warmth and she was smiling. "Do you think they have proper food here? And drink?"

"They have beds," Bran said. "I suppose they would have food. Edd will probably bring some, later. You should sleep for now."

Meera nodded. She looked almost a child, then, for she did not have to be strong anymore. Not now. She could be happy and free, for the first time since Bran had known her.

But that left Bran alone with his many thoughts, as sleep would not claim him. He pulled his brother's blanket right around him as unbidden woes nagged at his mind. He thought of what he had seen the night before, where Jon had been surrounded by northern lords as they swore to him their allegiance. Someone had been beside him, but Bran had not known who.

Now he was positive it had to have been Sansa. It could only have been her, for Arya was drifting away.

Bran tugged at the furs, wishing he had Summer to warm him. Unbidden the tears came; prickling at the corners of his eyes and threatening to fall. It had been his fault, and his alone, that Summer had died. His precious wolf, always protecting, a part of Bran... He had lost so much when he had lost his direwolf, so much more than a mere man could have imagined. It was as though a part of him had been crushed.

And another piece had been taken when Hodor had been. A sweet, simple stable hand with giant's blood who could only speak one word had come to mean more to Bran than he had ever anticipated. The guilt he felt upon his mistakes, upon his passing, overwhelmed him. Nothing could take that away. Not even Hodor would reassure him, because all Hodor could say was 'Hodor', and what good would that be?

Meera sighed from above him, reminding Bran that he had one purpose and one purpose alone in this world; to protect her as best he could, to be there for her whenever she needed, to love her should she ever accept him.

He knew that she would not. Who would?

* * *

 **AN: It was SO time for a Bran chapter. Frankly, I kind of really love this. I just... I freaking love Edd, you know? He just makes everything better. Oh, and I also wanted to note: this fanfiction contains book elements, you must remember, so the characters will never perfectly correlate with their show counterparts. There's always going to be that underlying book character base. So, this Dany may not be quite as badass or stoic as show!Dany, because book!Dany is a bit more emotional mentally/externally.**

 **Or at least, that's my perception. You might think differently, and that's totally alright and wonderful :)**

 **Review, my lords and ladies! Much love! xx**


	10. Chapter 10

NINE; Sansa

It was time.

Peytr came as soon as she summoned him, though not to her chambers, of course; she sat on the edge of her Mother's bed. The room still smelt of her — a shadow of the woman she had once been, her life gone but memory living on through Sansa's love.

She did this for her. For Arya, now, and Bran. And Jon, who deserved her loyalty. Who had nearly died for her. She had hated him as a child, but that had only been based off of everyone else's feelings — though mainly from her Mother.

She was her own person, now, though. She would make her own choices, and take charge of her own life. She would not be Peytr's pawn, nor would she be Jon's crutch, or Tyrion's stepping stool. She was Sansa of House Stark; a wolf of winter. This place was her place. The place of her ancestors and family. She belonged here.

Petyr wore his dark cloak, buckled at the neck as always. She remembered with hidden amusement why he wore such clothing; her Uncle Brandon had sliced him open from collarbone to torso. She had not been the first Stark to inflict wounds upon him, internal hers might have been.

"Lady Sansa," he greeted, in the same fashion as before. This time, his eyes looked a little more hopeful.

"Lord Baelish," she said stiffly, gripping the fur blanket for comfort and support. Her Mother had slept on this bed. And her Father, too. She met Peytr's eyes. "I hope that you are well adjusting to the north?"

"Indeed," said Petyr. "And you, my lady," Lord Baelish stepped closer. "I trust you are mourning your husband still?"

He was not just cruel, she realised. He was evil. Pure, sadistic evil — not as bad as Ramsay, for he knew how to keep it in check — but evil enough for her to have to suppress a recoil. "No," she said at last. Pleasantries were getting her nowhere. She would have to be blunt. "As a matter of fact, Lord Baelish, I have been considering your words. I have decided that it is high time I took a new husband."

She stood quickly, causing him to take a startled step back. Quickly she poured herself a goblet of summer wine, which her attendant had left for her. She had to hide her fear, her anger. She had to save her family. "When I do marry you," she said, "it will mean the joining of House Stark and House Arryn once more — you will continue to act as regent, and I will be made my cousin's step-mother."

"Step-mother?" Peytr's bottom lip curved downwards. "But I am not Robin's father... Not by blood, anyway. Taking another wife when I am not his true—"

"Please, my lord," she waved off his words, "if we are to be man and wife, there are no need for lies." She took a deep breath and blurted out what she had been suspecting for ages. "Lord Arryn fathered only two children by my aunt, both of them stillborn. The others were miscarried. But one lived. A sickly, little child, with dark hair." She tapped the rim of her goblet. "You were described as sickly when you were a child, were you not? And, you told me yourself that the reason they call you _Littlefinger_ is because of how small you were. A boy from the Fingers prone to shaking fits, with dark hair. Does that sound familiar to you?"

As she sipped, the aged wine filling her mouth, Littlefinger smiled widely. "I had thought that you were learning," he said. "It is a pleasure to know that I was right."

Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "You are not the only teacher I have had."

At that, Littlefinger laughed. "Yes," he said. "That is true." He shifted his cloak.

To cover the awkward silence that had settled between them, Sansa poured him a goblet of wine. "How soon do you wish to marry?"

"That is for you to decide," he told her, cautiously sniffing the drink but not partaking. "Though, before I am an old man, would be nice."

 _You are already an old man_. "Give me a fortnight, at least," she said slowly, gazing out the window at the torches flickering in their sconces. "I wish to get to know my home again."

Peytr raised a grey eyebrow. "And how long will that take? Just long enough for me to meet an unfortunate accident?"

He was playing the victim; she could tell by the perturbed frown that graced his lips. As though he already knew the answer to his own question. "You know that I would never do such a thing. On another note, my lord, I have received a raven from the Wall. It would seem my brother Brandon lives," she said. To her pleasure, he winced at the name. "He has returned, according to the Lord Commander of the Watch. Which means we have two people to contest with in order to gain the whole of the north."

"'We'?" Littlefinger stepped forward, again, setting aside the untouched wine.

"We," she assured him, trying to make her eyes as honest as they could be. She hated that she had told him. Hated that she had kept the letter from Jon. Hated that now he knew. No doubt he would send men after her brother. Assassins disguised as noble knights sent to escort him south. Of course Sansa had warned Edd; to keep a guard on her brother at all times, to keep him safe. She wanted to badly to see him again; little Bran, who loved climbing and his wolf.

Then Littlefinger interrupted her musings as he pressed his lips to her own, snaking his tongue into her mouth. She stood, shocked a little at his forward behaviour, and then responded hesitantly.

She hated his kisses. He tasted like poison. Her lips burned, and she pulled away as quick as she could without seeming suspicious. "I must retire, my lord," she said firmly, lightly removing herself from his firm grip.

"And I suppose you mean alone?" He asked, again smiling.

"A woman must keep certain virtues," she said, eyes flickering to the door. She made for it, but he grabbed her hand.

"You are more beautiful than she ever was," he reminded her, and then he let her go.

* * *

Her brother was going to pace a hole in the floor.

Sansa kept her eyes on him, as did everyone else in the room; the northern lords, Tormund, Brienne, Grey Worm and Tyrion all followed him. It had been five minutes now. Sansa had reigned in her impatience as well as she was able, but for the sake of the gods he would have to stop sometime. She told him as much, in a much louder voice than might have been necessary.

Jon halted and turned to her half-way. He looked as though he was hiding a smile; with his lips quirked up ever-so-slightly and his eyes alight with an unrecognisable mirth. "As Her Grace commands," he said, almost mockingly.

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Just sit," she ordered, aware of how ironic the action was. "You're acting like a caged wolf."

"As is my custom," he replied, though he did as she asked of him. The other lords and ladies seemed to let out a collective sigh. "What is first on the agenda today?"

"The Riverlands are facing a potential civil war," Sansa told him promptly. "The Blackwoods and Brackens have sided with one another for the first time in many years, against the Freys and several other houses. House Tully, aside from my Uncle Edmure, had been vanquished. Unfortunately my uncle has ties to House Frey. It is said that he has sided himself with them."

"Craven," muttered Lord Glover. "My brother always said it, and now so do I. It was only a matter of time before he broke down."

Sansa held back from seething and turned to face him. "You state the precise reason as to why he surrendered Riverrun, my lord," she said. "'Broke down.' Do you honestly think a man such as Walder Frey would have let a Tully live in peace? Most likely they tortured him day and night, kept him from his wife, his home. If you had the chance to regain a little of what you had lost — your brother, for instance — what would it take to brake _you_?"

He was silenced. Sansa turned back to her brother. "We must liberate the Riverlands before it is too late. Then, as soon as it as done, we can return north to prepare ourselves for the real war."

"Jon," Tyrion stepped forward. "Have you come to a decision?"

Her brother had met his pause. He knew of her warnings, of the reluctance they shared, and yet she still had to prepare herself for what was to come. "Is there any way that we could form an alliance without marriage?" Jon asked.

Tyrion shifted. "I am afraid not, my friend," he said. "I am aware of your concerns, and I assure you, it is more than safe. Especially with me vouching for you."

Jon drew in a sharp breath. She could see the wheels in his brain working, slow as they were, and then, "I'll do it."

Her heart sank. " _Jon_ —"

"Fantastic," Tyrion's eyes alit with a satisfactory gleam. "I will send word to the queen as soon as this meeting has adjourned."

This was it. This was the moment everything was ruined, like it always ended up. They would lose everything because of her brother's foolishness. Seven hells, had he not learned? Yes, Daenerys might be sane... _At the moment._ They said even Aerys was kind and good in his youth, and look what had come of that. It was a thought that had occurred to her in the night, after her talk with Tyrion.

A thought which had spun a web of fear and paranoia, chipping away at her own marble resolve, causing her heart to blacken and her lips to slip into a permanent frown. They could never go back from this.

Sansa straightened. _If she attempts to ruin me, I will ruin her, first._ "Will Daenerys acknowledge my status as Queen of the North?"

Tyrion ducked his head. "I do believe so," he said. "She has acknowledged that of Yara Greyjoy's, and has mentioned to me that others are free to ask for their independence as well. I think she would be content as long as she is not looked down upon, as long as those whom she respects will respect her in turn."

"The Greyjoys..." Sansa echoed. "Is... Is Theon alive? Is he well?"

Tyrion seemed slightly confused by her interest, but nodded nonetheless. "Last I saw him, he was as well as can be, Your Grace."

Sansa nodded. She felt relief coursing through her like a flood, slapping against her bones and causing her skin to prickle. _Thank the Gods, old and new,_ she thought, slumping against the table and closing her eyes. She could just see his face, terrified and regretful as he hugged her in farewell. She had forgiven him long ago, for he had paid the ultimate price; he had lost himself, like the very best among them.

"Your Grace?"

Tyrion was watching her, concerned. He had moved closer and laid his hand on her arm. The contact made her bristle, though not against him. She remembered their kiss, a kiss of forgiveness and redemption, and smiled. "I am fine, my lord husband," she said, not quite sure why she continued to address him as such. "Thank you."

Tyrion nodded. "On to business," he said loudly, startling the lords and ladies out of their quiet confabulation. "We have decided we will aid the Riverlands, using northern forces or those of Daenerys, a choice has yet to be reached. What else needs to be discussed?"

"Lord Baelish," Sansa said quietly. She wanted so badly to confess her earlier discussion, but that would ruin the whole plan. She had to advocate for him now, so that he would trust her when the time came. "We owe him a great debt. The terms of your alliance said we were not to confer with him, hence his lack of presence."

"And yet the man remains confident," Tyrion mused, tapping the rim of his wine goblet. "It would seem he has something else up his sleeve. Does anyone have any clue what his motives could be?"

"You assume there is more than one," Sansa scoffed. _I know his motive. Me. Gods, when will this torment end?_ "He wants only one thing, Tyrion; himself on the Iron Throne. Whether that means assassinating your queen or my king, it matters not. He will do all it takes to achieve his ends."

"Even if it means being King of ashes," Tyrion whispered. He looked to be contemplating something.

Sansa stiffened. She had a sense that someone was about to speak, but she would not be undermined again. "I have a plan," she said. "Once I smooth the details we will have nothing to worry about. Give me time."

Tyrion nodded. "Very well," he said. "Jon? Do you have anything to add?"

Her brother had been watching them intently. Finally he spoke. "No," he said. "No, I do not; I trust Sansa to rid herself of this threat. If that is all...?" _Bran lives_ , she wanted to scream, feeling the letter in her pocket. _He lives and breathes at the Wall._

"The Dreadfort," said Lord Flint, to Sansa's surprise. He was looking at her. "It is technically Her Grace's—"

"Burn it," Sansa said firmly, stomach clenching. "Lord Flint, lead out a party of twenty men. Remove any innocents, and send them where you please. Then burn the keep."

He nodded. Jon looked to the lords and ladies, who raised no protest, and ended their meet.

* * *

Afterwards, Sansa walked with him through the castle halls to her chamber. She had letters to finish and a new dress to make. "Will you establish a Small Council?" She asked him. It had been nagging at the back of her mind for a long time.

Jon looked a bit startled. Then he chuckled, seemingly startled at the action itself. "I doubt it," he said. "It would be quite the southron thing to do, do you not think?"

She sighed with relief. "Yes," she said.

"Why does the prospect of a Small Council frighten you so?"

Her true answer withered deep within her like a blackening rose; the petals falling and crumbling to dust were her shame and the abundance of thorns was her treachery. "I only wished to avoid conflict between the northern lords and ladies. Some may not take to the prospect."

Jon nodded, thoughtfully. "You needn't let it concern you," he said evenly. "I have no desire toward the Iron Throne and I will never follow the practises of the south."

 _My only desire is vengeance, my only practise is lies and the secrets I keep._ "Perhaps, Jon," she said, "but Daenerys lusts after the throne. You are to marry her, which would make you King—"

"Our marriage will be one of circumstance, Tyrion told me. She will rule the south in my favour and I will rule the north in hers. We will call one another husband and wife, perhaps meet once a year to brief one another on the comings and goings of our respective kingdoms... But no, Sansa; I will not sit beside her on a lower chair as she towers over all else. I do not see the honour in that."

Sansa had not expected him to say such a thing, thinking back to their days as children when she and Jon and Robb had played monsters and maidens, and come-into-my-castle. He had always been the bravest of knights; the most worthy of kings and princes on those summer afternoons. Robb had always competed with him for a better place, but it was not often that he won. Then, all of the sudden, Jon's victories had ceased and Robb's victories had increased tenfold.

Jon laughed when he heard her musings aloud. "Your head was always full of too many songs, San," he told her. Then his arm twitched, as though he were about to reach up and do something. They both frowned, her in confusion and Jon in utter, heartbroken sorrow. His fingers flexed and he walked abruptly away.

 _Arya_ , whispered a small voice in the back of her mind. _He used to mess up Arya's hair when she said something foolish or abrupt. As though he was proud, and fond._

Sansa stared at the place he had once been and felt another piece chip away.

* * *

"Tormund."

At the sound of his name, the tall, ginger-haired man whirled around. As soon as he laid eyes on Sansa he grinned, as we was wont to do. Tormund had taken to her instantly after her arrival at the Wall, claiming them to be distant kin for their hair. 'Kissed by fire,' he had told her, with an arm slung around her shoulders. 'A rare thing, like those pretty gems you southroners are so fascinated by.'

"Sansa," he returned, not bothering with titles at all. She thought it would be an odd thing — a foreign thing — to have her call him or Jon 'Your Grace.' Tormund was a refreshing bluntness to the complaisant nature of the north.

"Would you walk with me?" She asked, fastening the clasp on her cloak. She greatly hoped he would; Brienne had been half-mad with annoyance and confusion these past few nights, leaving Sansa in the middle of the two.

Tormund nodded, taking a moment to excuse himself from the wildling boy he had clearly been training. Then he joined her. Purposely she walked toward the crypts, knowing that Jon would not truly protest as he trusted Tormund with his life; though the crypts were a Stark place, those who were accepted as kin were not stayed from visiting briefly.

They stopped just before the steps. "You mustn't spread word that I'm letting you in," she told him, desperately. "It is not often that such a thing is allowed."

Tormund nodded. Acting on instinct, she laced her arm through his own and made to descend, but her former action seemed to have startled him. Tormund recovered, of course, though he was blushing red.

She hid her smile. "There is a torch on a sconce to your right," she informed him as they walked blindly. "Could you pass it to me?"

He did so. Quickly she managed to light it. Brightness filled the crypts to a certain extent. They walked further inward. "Why have you brought me to this place?" Tormund asked, rather blunt.

"For two reasons," Sansa replied promptly. She avoided stepping in a puddle. "The first being that, given how many times you have saved my brother's life, and your willingness to recover our home for us, I thought it rude not to thank you. But the Free Folk might not appreciate my favouritism, you see, as they all aided Jon and I. Unfortunately I could not very well go around and kiss them all in gratitude... You will just have to pass on word for me that I... I would be dead if not for them."

She paused, gathering her thoughts. "The second reason?" Tormund inquired.

"We will get to that," she said, lifting her skirt ever-so-slightly as the ground had grown much more damp the higher they went. "Come."

Tormund followed. They had finally reached a section of the crypts that was familiar to Sansa; this effigies were not rust and piles of shapeless stone but solid — albeit weathered. Their faces were long and grim and solemn. It saddened Sansa for the first time that she did not share their look. "That is Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt," she told her companion, raising the torch so that they could see. "And there, farther down, is my grandfather, Rickard. He was burnt alive by wildfire before a whole court of people, all because he round south to recover his daughter — my Aunt Lyanna." She pointed out that one, too.

"She was stolen by Rhaegar Targaryen, though she was already betrothed to Robert Baratheon. Robert felt spurned by Rhaegar. He caused a war on her behalf, calling his banners to fuel his rage. My father fought beside him, as he had been raised alongside him in the Vale—"

"Your father was not raised in the north?" Tormund sounded shocked. Most likely he had heard many tales of the late Lord Eddard Stark, involving a hardened man who could face winter like a man faced spring.

"No," Sansa shook her head. "His brother, my uncle Brandon, was. Brandon, as the heir, remained in the north whilst my father was sent south to live with Jon Arryn. Brandon was fostered at Barrowtown for a time, but eventually he returned home to live with Lyanna and Benjen. My father visited them many times..."

She blinked, for her breathing had suddenly become sharp at the thought of her youthful father, holding the prospect of so much life to live at his fingertips. A lie. "When the war broke out, and Brandon and Rickard died, my father took up a lordship he was never meant to have. He married Catelyn Tully, my mother, in Brandon's stead. My brother Robb was born a year later."

She smiled fondly, approaching the effigy of her brother. Tormund followed. "He looks like Jon," the wilding commented, "and you."

Sansa nodded. "Jon and Robb were a lot alike... They were always competing with one another to be best. Jon was quick where Robb was steady, slim were Robb was broad, and dark where Robb was fair. They were the best of friends and the worst of rivals. I think Jon would give anything to have him back."

Tormund bowed his head sadly. "I am sorry to have not met him."

Sansa managed another smile. "I think he might have liked you. But you never knew with Robb; he had a tendency to be rather unpredictable." She paused, bitterness settling over her. "It's what got him killed."

They stood in silence while Tormund absorbed her words. At last, he spoke once more. "What was the second reason?"

She was hesitant for a moment, wondering if she should speak the words Brienne had begged her to. Finally she summoned the courage. "When Jon was younger, he had no idea how to speak to girls," she told the wildling. They stepped away from Robb's effigy and crossed to that of her Father's. To see his face... It chipped yet another piece.

Sighing heavily she went on, to the assent of a much amused Tormund. "He would blush and stammer and had a tendency to run away. Finally I'd had enough and decided to sit him down, and teach him the best way to approach a lady. We would come down here for weeks on end, practising all sorts of conversations until I was satisfied with his competence."

She turned to the wildling. "Are you keen on Lady Brienne?"

Immediately, he was blushing. "Might be," he replied gruffly, "dunno..."

Sansa resisted the urge to laugh aloud. "It's alright," she said. "I only felt it was prudent for you to understand that... Brienne is not used to such attentions. Men of the south do not take to her looks so kindly—"

"But why not? She is by far the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on; tall and strong and brave. The children we could make..." His eyes grew distant and glazed over with his fantasies.

"Perhaps one day songs will be written about them," Sansa said. "But to answer your question; your reasons of affection are the precise reasons of their abhorrence. Some men can be ignorant. Blind to what truly dwells beneath. You and I may see Brienne as beautiful, others call her a monster and freak because of her stature."

"There are plenty of women like her north of the wall," Tormund said. "She should come there, live in peace."

"I am afraid Brienne is sworn to mine and Jon's service," she told him. "That does not mean, however, that you cannot attempt to win her affections."

Tormund considered this. "How would I go about such a thing? She has ignored me since we met. I have tried every trick."

"Every trick? Have you tried talking to her?"

At the very prospect, Tormund reddened again. "I... I would be rejected, I know it—"

"Relax," Sansa could not suppress her giggle any longer. She laid a hand on his chest to calm him. "I do not mean for it to happen this instant. Build up your confidence. Think of things to speak with her about; fighting, the north, you could even talk about Jon and I, or your separate lives. Just get to know her."

"And then steal her."

Sansa frowned. "No."

"But... That is the way of the north, Sansa. You express your desire through stealing."

"I know," she told him, almost exasperated, "but she is a woman of the south. Stealing her would be the worst thing you could do; she would grow angry, perhaps even attack you. You never know what a woman is capable of until provoked."

"What would you suggest instead, then?" Tormund's eyes were alight with interest.

"Ask for her hand in marriage. You could preform the ceremony before the weirwood tree in the godswood, or, following Brienne's faith, the sept. It's small, but I think it would suit the both of you. My father had it built for my mother when she came here from Riverrun."

The wildling comprehended her words slowly. Finally he nodded, but there were questions in his eyes, still. She urged him to speak. "Is she... keen on me? At all?"

Sansa smiled. "I would not know," she said. "But I promise I will ask." With that she leaned up and kissed his cheek. He blushed red once more and awkwardly looked away from her. She laughed loud enough for it to echo off of the walls of the crypt. "Come on, or we will be late for supper."

* * *

Jon called her to his chambers after dinner. Tyrion was there, as well as Davos, but other than that they were alone. Sansa left Brienne to guard outside. "You summoned me," she said quietly, peeling off her gloves.

Jon nodded. He seemed to have recovered from their previous encounter after the meeting, though she did not mind the meaning of his actions. Likely he was ashamed of his mistake, but she herself was glad of it; it meant that the rift between them was healing. She could only hope that she would not ruin it again with the concealed truth of Bran. She would tell him, she decided, after he promised not to marry Daenerys. She could not bring Bran back home if it was not safe. But she would visit him herself, of course, after Jon went south. She would not leave her baby brother alone at the Wall, thinking that they had forgotten him.

"I wish to hear your thoughts on this one final time before Tyrion sends out the raven," he said.

He was trying. For her sake, he was trying. Sansa pursed her lips and sat across from him, but it was Davos who spoke first.

"I believe marriage of any kind is the right call, Your Grace," he said, bouncing on his heels the way he was wont to do. "It specifies that you are viewing her as your equal, and that she in turn does the same. It is the safer option."

"In your eyes, perhaps," she said to Davos, still mistrusting of the man. "But if you offend her in any way, Jon, who is to say she will not take out her anger on our home? Our family? I can't..." She realised too late that there were tears threatening to fall. "I can't lose anyone else."

Jon watched her for a moment. Then he circled the desk and pulled her up into his embrace. He was wearing his furs, which made him all the warmer. She recalled the days when she had been a small little thing, wearing dresses of light blue and a smile to rival anyone else's. She recalled a time when she had begged her father for an extra lemon cake, pleading like she had learned to do. He had chuckled and swept her up into his arms, and then carried her off to the kitchens for the treat.

"I will not do it if you do not want me to."

She pulled away, thinking. "Father once told me that often times men choose to do what is easy rather than what is right." She took a deep breath. "I may not like it, but I recognise that it has to be done and I will not hate you for it."

Jon nodded. He grabbed a scroll from off the table — sealed, unfortunately, otherwise she would have asked to read it — and handed it to Tyrion.

Words were wind, she thought.

* * *

 **AN: And that is all for today, my lords and ladies! I apologise for the delay, but I was ill. Anyway, this Sansa chapter was so much fun, I swear. I loved writing it, and I hope you love reading it just as much!**

 **Much love! xx**


	11. Chapter 11

TEN; Arya

The rain fell, hard and fast, like continual slaps against the face. It obscured her vision, and dampened her hair so that it hung in unruly strands. The road ahead was paved in mud, enclosed within the trees. The understory around them was sheltered from the weathering by the trees above, so that only crystal clear dew drops glittered. The sound was utterly pleasing, joined with the howling of the nearby wolf pack - which prowler not far off - and the murmured conversations between the Brotherhood men.

There were many things on her mind, and the farther she travelled north, the more cluttered it seemed to become. It seemed to Arya that she had remembered and cherished every single memory shared between herself and her siblings, especially Jon, for he had been there the most. And of course, there was Gendry. It had been a gradual progression, but Arya was beginning to suspect he might love her.

It was stupid, because it wasn't like she was pretty or kind like so many others could be. But, of course, this never seemed to bother him; he would sleep next to her at night and somehow they always ended up in each other's arms. Gendry kissed her whenever he could, and they did other things as well. Things that would have made Septa Mordane fall on a sword to end her suffering.

Those things had confused her at first, but she found she liked them. Sometimes Gendry could even make her cry out in pleasure. Sometimes she could do the same to him. It had become a sort of competition between them; who could get the other to make the most noise. Arya always lost because she giggled too much, it was so stupid to hear him moaning her name.

Even so, she supposed there were things about herself Gendry might like. She was brave. She has strong. She'd commanded those wolves with such fierceness she thought even her father might be proud of her. And anyway, she'd known Gendry for years. He was her friend. They'd been through the seven hells and back together, and some of them apart, and yet here they were.

Besides, Gendry didn't want some prissy highborn lady. He wanted Arya, and that made her feel just as special as Jon always had when they were young.

She had learned to separate herself from Sansa, from her brothers and her mother and father a long time ago. She had even forgotten them — forced them out of her mind as though they had never existed at all. She was ashamed of that, now.

Slowly, with Gendry and Beric and even the Hound's help, she had come back into herself. She still liked handiwork, though, which she had learned to appreciate at the House of Black and White, but those periods when she would slip away from Arya, only to be suddenly jerked back into her body, were far less frequent.

When she felt bored, she would drag Gendry out into the woods to talk or fight or lie together. She was almost positive everyone knew what they were doing out there. Thankfully, most didn't mention it. Beric would make offhand comments sometimes and the Hound would roll his eyes when they returned with flushed skin and swollen lips, but that was all.

They respected her, now, which was odd. Arya had never been properly respected before. True, she had once been Arya Stark of Winterfell, a high born lady, but even then people had teased her and looked down on her for not being perfect.

The Brotherhood didn't mind her flaws. They looked to her for command instead of Beric, now. She was leading them north at a steady pace, planning attacks on clusters of fleeing Bolton soldiers, and avoiding enemies.

Today was no different. They had crossed the Neck, mostly, and were coming upon Moat Cailin. Arya could see the ruined fortress up ahead; a crumbling black mass of stone and dirt and rotted wood. It stuck out against the plain green landscape like a sore thumb. Once, it might have been a sight to behold. Now it was only a remembrance of what it had been.

They had been startled to see Arryn banners flying in the wind. Arya had expected Bolton, or Stark, but neither was true. Instead the white and blue falcon flapped in the wind as though it might fly straight off the fabric and into the desolate white horizon.

"What do we do?" Gendry asked, holding the hammer he had come to wield. It was different from the one he had used to forge things; a war-hammer, more like. Deadly all the same. "Attack?"

Arya frowned. She didn't like the idea of a fight — not now, not with so few men. And they didn't know if the Arryns were enemies or allies. Their Lord was Arya's cousin, besides. If they could just get closer...

She set her mouth into a grim line. She grabbed Gendry by the dulled point of his cuirass and dragged him back into the shrubbery. The trees were thin here; dwindling off the odd types that sprouted in the Neck and transitioning into the thick, deeply rooted elms and oaks she knew so well.

"If we can determine whether or not they're friend or foe, we can determine whether or not to attack," she told him as they walked. Her boots sank into the mulch. It was still wet from last-night's light snowfall, which has since melted and turned the ground to mud.

"Would've thought you'd've wanted to slaughter them all," said the Hound, having been within earshot. He was standing beside Thoros, scowling as always, but something had changed in him this past fortnight, as they grew closer. She just knew it.

It was the small things that brought his change in demeanour to her attention; livelier laughter, truer smiles, and a sharper gaze. He was anticipating something.

"Not everything need end in bloodshed," she told him swiftly, thinking of her Father's words. She missed him now more than ever; now that she was so close. Gods, she hadn't been this close since... Since she'd left.

And she was in the north, now. Her home land. Breathing the air of her people and walking the lands of her ancestors.

It was the most liberating feeling; the realisation that she was free.

"What do you plan to do?" Asked Beric, intrigued. He had his hand to his stubbly chin, as always, and was ready to advise her should she need it. Arya doubted it; she knew the north and it's people like the back of her hand.

"You'll see," she said. And then she left them there to wonder.

* * *

Nymeria was brushing up against a tree when Arya found her. The wolf's pelt was far less matted than it had been upon their first meeting, but now it was covered in leaves and twigs and dirt. Even still, Arya could not be cross. Nymeria was the leader of her pack, just like Arya was the leader of her own. They both had a right to do as they pleased.

"To me," she ordered. Instantly the so-called wild wolf obeyed. To tell it true, she was more tame than ever before. Arya suspected it had something to do with she, herself; her time at the House of Black and White, where she had come to learn how to suppress and hide all emotion, and counter her wolf-blood into a rage meant for killing.

Arya ran her hands through her wolf's pelt, stroking until she felt calm and ready. Then she placed her hand on Nymeria's skull and became her.

 _The air was sharp and ripe with the stench of man. All around her there were the two-legged beasts she had been tracking for so long, set on hunting down her mistress. They jested and laughed, though some were solemn and long-faced. Men once of the north, like the former masters of her brother-wolves, who had died long before and left her all alone._

 _Except Ghost. He would never abandon her._

 _She felt sorrow churn in her belly; a thick want and need for the pack she had lost. Lady, Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggydog. All of them were beyond her reach._

 _She shoved these thoughts away for she had a duty. Looking through the gathering of men, she left the tree-line and approached the structure which her mistress bid her to scout out. Upon the battlements there were men as well; men clad in blue and white and grey. Colours of those who were honourable._

 _She would not trust yet, though._

 _Nymeria skirted around the ruin, careful to keep out of sight. Her paws sank into the muddy ground as she waited by the entrance to the courtyard. She could not enter, but from here she could smell and listen, and then she would know._

 _"The scouts report a small party in the woods, my lord," said a thin little human boy, with hair like straw and eyes like unpolished marble. "Should we attack?"_

 _"Not without knowing the identity of those who squat on our borders," replied the voice of a worn, plump grey-haired man. "It would be better to send out a party to meet them. Ready my horse, Cleyton."_

 _The boy-man nodded, shouldering a quiver of arrows. He scurried down a flight of unstable steps and off toward what must have been the horse-pens, by the scent. Why humans thought it necessary to keep such creatures boxed away, Nymeria knew not._

 _The plump man followed after the boy-man, gloving his pale, fingered paws. "Lord Redfort," said a small, spindly looking she-man. "I had not heard news of your departure. Do you head for Winterfell?"_

 _Nymeria could sense the bitter thoughts in the plump man's head, but they remained unspoken. "Nay, my lady," he said. "I meet with a possible raiding party."_

 _"Iron Born?" She asked._

 _"I know not."_

 _He climbed onto his already dressed horse — why did they have to dress them as well?! — and rode out. Would that he had seen Nymeria, but she was already bounding back into the woods to meet with her mistress._

"Good girl," Arya praised, once she had slipped back into her own skin. It was becoming easier to do, of late, now that she had time to practise. Arya wasn't frightened by it; she had heard Old Nan's tales and she knew of the danger being a skinchanger posed, but she was prepared to use it as a weapon of sorts until the time came when she could truly wield a sword again.

She made her way back to the brotherhood, hand on Needle's hilt. "Lord Redfort approaches," she told them grimly, leading the four of them up the shallow slope. "Best not be late."

"How do you know this?" Beric demanded of her. "You were only gone five minutes—"

"It's none of your business, Beric," Arya snapped. Sure, she had accepted her abilities, but would Beric? Gendry? The Brotherhood? Or would they all be appalled and betray her, like everyone else did?

That was not possible, she assured herself, staying close to her wolf. They were loyal to her, as Jaqen and so many before him had not been. She was their princess. Their winter queen. Gendry had even made her a crown of winter roses one afternoon and placed it on her head. She'd punched him squarely in the jaw and worn it the whole day, and every day since, in memory of her Aunt Lyanna.

She hadn't told him that, though. And he'd only laughed when she punched him, just like at Acorn Hall. "You're really my forest lass, now," he'd said. Arya could only recall being so glad she hadn't been the only one to remember the song that she'd thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him right where she'd hit him.

The party was drawing near. Six other men had joined Lord Redfort. All were armed and mounted.

"Fire a warning shot, Anguy," Arya called.

The archer obliged, drawing back an arrow and aiming upwards. The arrow left his bow and made it's home near seven feet from Lord Redfort. The man halted, wide-eyed, and promptly slipped off of his mount.

That was when she emerged, Needle drawn and Nymeria at her side, and waited.

She had learned patience in Braavos, but even still he took ages to meet her. A bit of sparring would do him good, she thought wryly as he and his men closed in around her. She was not frightened, though. She'd faced far worse.

"Lord Redfort," she said. "You serve the Vale of Arryn."

"I do... My lady...?"

"No names," she said. "Not yet. Not until I get the answers to my questions."

One of Lord Redfort's companions snorted. "Or you will do what, girl? Skewer us with your stick?"

Arya glared. "I just might, if you don't shut your mouth, _boy_."

He shut his mouth. Arya faced Horton Redfort once again. "What House does the Vale of Arryn serve?" She asked steadily, preparing herself for the worst.

Baelish was not the answer she got. "House Stark," said the Lord.

Arya could have thrown her arms around him and showered him with kisses, so grateful to meet a man who spoke the name of her house with a renewed, vigorous pride, but she held herself back. "Thank you, my lord," she said, and she meant it, eyeing him and each of his men in turn. "I must speak with my men."

Horton Redfort nodded, albeit bemused — and suspicious, probably. He let her go all the same, which meant he wasn't like the lords she'd had to deal with in the past.

"Well?" Gendry was the first to speak, hammer at the ready.

"We don't have the men," she said in answer, "and they fight for my family, anyway."

"They _say_ they do," Gendry shot back.

She didn't want to fight today. She was so close... So close to Sansa, to Winterfell, to Jon. "Trust me," she said. "I won't get any of you killed, I promise. And if they try anything, disperse, register by the trees across the valley and then attack."

"You don't seem very sure of their loyalty," the Hound said dryly.

Arya glared. "We can _trust_ them."

"Common last words," Thoros jested, patting his wineskin.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Come on. I don't want to keep them waiting long.

* * *

"Lord Redfort," Arya called, once again in view. The man was surrounded by his companions. They circled him and gave her grim, untrusting looks. "I have one more question for you, before I tell you my name."

"And what would that be?"

"What is your allegiance to House Baelish?"

There was a heavy, thick pause which almost made her question herself, what with the looks the Redfort men were shooting her. Nymeria and Gendry stayed close, protective and loyal to the end. She would have said something to ease the silence could she have spoken at all.

And then Lord Redfort decided to be merciful. "I have no allegiance to him," he said. "I advised against the union of Lysa Arryn to Peytr Baelish, and have only followed his commands because they come through the voice of my liege lord, Robin Arryn."

Arya nodded. The truth of his words, and Nymeria's lack of obvious distrust, had made her believe him. "My name is Arya Stark, Lord Redfort," she said. "Your liege lord is my cousin."

If she had been asked earlier that morn how she expected such a proclamation to have been met, she wouldn't ever have dared say that Lord Redfort would drop to his knee and hail her his Princess for his six men and all of hers to hear and see.

* * *

The accommodations at Moat Cailin were wonderful, given Arya had spent the last several moons sleeping on her back on the ground, with nothing to warm her at night but the clothes on her back and Gendry's body. But sometimes they were both cold; shivering even, curled up together and waiting for the sun to rise again, would that it could.

Now she had a hearth, furs, and Gendry all together. She had never been so happy to lay in a bed. Mayhap that was stupid, but it was true all the same.

Gendry held her close to his chest, tracing patterns up and down her gooseprickled arms. One of his hands lay on her stomach, where the scars the Waif had given her remained. Gendry had been shocked to see them, but she had calmed him after she had explained what happened; how the Waif had attacked her on that bridge and Lady Crane had saved her life.

She knew she'd been stupid to act so foolishly; traipsing around with her bags of gold and demanding passage aboard a ship. But she'd also known it was the only way to draw the Waif out, were she following Arya. Unfortunately she hadn't counted on her using the faces in the hall, rather foolishly.

She'd made a mistake. But she was alive because of it.

Gendry ran his hands through her hair, which had been since washed and half-hazardly braided around the top. It was longer, now. Reaching just passed her shoulders. He leaned forward and kissed her brow in the most tender of ways. It felt like a promise.

Arya smiled, resting her head upon his bare chest so that she might hear his heart beating. She traced patterns across his skin whilst he breathed; little acorns, leaves, and roses, even wolves and stags.

"I love you," she told him. Simple as that.

Gendry's breath hitched. She could feel it. His heart hammered against his chest, which she could hear. That made her smile. She looked up, to see his eyes focused soley on her face. Blue, they were; and clear like crystals.

"I- why?"

The question took her a bit by surprise. She sighed softly, scooting up to cup his face. "You're an idiot," she told him. "Really, you are. Why do I love you? Are you really asking?"

"Yes..."

She was not one for words. But it wasn't hard to tell him what she was thinking. That had never been a problem for Arya Stark. "You've stayed with me," she said. "Even when you didn't, you did. And you're my family. I don't care if I'm a princess or a lady or any of that — especially because it isn't true. I just... Want to be around you for the rest of my life. And I want to be able to kiss you when I want, and touch you wherever, and whenever I do I get all weak in the knees..." She blushed, looking down at his chest. "Gods, I sound like my sister."

Gendry did not speak. He merely reached up and stroked her cheek, where she had not realised a tear had fallen. Their eyes met; a winter sky on a summer sea. Somehow peaceful and perfect. "You're my forest love," she told him, voice trembling.

"And you're my forest lass." He grinned, even wider when Arya kissed him so firmly she thought her stomach was quaking. She played her tongue along his lower lip, tasting him. He tasted good. She straddled his waist and continued to kiss him, soft and slow or fast and hard, with only one thought: _I don't ever, ever want to stop doing this._

"You're a changed woman," Gendry told her, clutching her closer, pulling up the fell blanket.

Arya rolled her eyes. "How is that? I'm still stubborn and sullen and small."

"But you're... _Powerful_ , Arya. A storm to be reckoned with, I might say."

"That's stupid," she told him. But it wasn't. It was the nicest, most sweetest thing anyone had said to her in so long. She leaned down again and kissed him softly, the way she had learned would make him yearn for more.

She'd give him more. She'd give him all she had.

* * *

Lord Redfort met with her the next morning at dawn to go over their plans for the journey north. Arya had demanded that he send a raven to Lord Reed, offering up the ruin for his own without any price at all. His men would be glad of it, she knew; they didn't trust those of the south.

Lord Redfort had hesitantly agreed. She was glad they had met in private, otherwise his stupid sons and counsellors would advise against it, protesting that Lord Howland had lost Moat Cailin to their enemies one too many times and whatever else they could find to say, even though it was hardly true; her father had always told her that Lord Howland was one of the best of men. Arya knew it was true; she'd heard all of the stories, especially the Tower of Joy, and had heard firsthand what his men had to say about him.

Arya had met one of Lord Howland's men in the Neck. She'd interrogated him briefly, only to see Howland's true loyalties. It hadn't taken much for her doubts, which had only sprouted from his initial refusal to go north, to be settled; apparently he was preparing a garrison to ride north to meet with Jon. She meant to beat him there.

Lord Redfort sent out the raven. He then asked Arya to walk with him along the battlements.

It was raining and snowing together. Arya didn't bother to pull up the hood of her cloak; she was so glad for the winter that she embraced it like a true northman. But this was not snow as she remembered. She would have to travel farther north for that.

"You plan to go back to Winterfell sooner rather than later, I presume?" asked Horton.

"Yes," Arya replied simply. And then, "I'd like to set out tomorrow."

"Then I will go with you."

Arya reddened. "My lord—"

"It is not safe for the Princess of Winterfell to be wandering about with a band of thieves and rapists," he cut in swiftly, head held high.

Arya wanted to roll her eyes, but all the same she understood his concern. That didn't mean she wasn't angry, though. "They're not rapists," she said hotly. "Thieves, yes, but that's only because they have no coin. Most times they hunt for food, though. But that's not..." She sighed. "I trust them."

"Even Sandor Celgane?"

She did roll her eyes that time. "Even him," she said firmly, avoiding a bit of loose stone. She'd taken the Hound off of her list a while ago, mostly because she'd learned to understand why he was so bitter. It wasn't his fault his brother had done awful things, or that stupid Joffery had ordered him to murder Mycah... But he hadn't had to chop him into tiny bits like he'd done. Even still, he'd nearly died in turn, so she supposed he might be atoning some.

"Well then," Horton smiled, "I am still going with you. It would be the highest of honours to be able to escort the princess of the north on her journey home; to ensure that no harm comes her way, and none dare attempt to stop her."

"I can take care of myself," she said. "My lord."

Horton's eyes flickered to her sword. "I do not doubt it, my lady, but I want to be able to kneel before my king and tell him I did everything I could to give you safe passage. Not just for you, but for Ned. The boy was a boon to Jon Arryn, Gods rest their souls..."

"You knew my father?"

"That I did," he smiled. "Quite well, I might say. We kept in correspondence even after he went to claim the north. He was a good man. Honourable, and kind."

Arya felt her eyes grow moist. "That didn't stop an insolent little boy from removing his head," she said. "That didn't stop the whole of the kingdoms betraying him, aside from the north, and calling him a traitor."

"I never believed it," Lord Redfort said softly.

"Then you're no fool," she replied. "I thank you."

"For my clear eyes?" Lord Redfort chuckled.

"No," Arya smiled, "for reminding me what it felt like to be the daughter of a good man."

His mirth left him all at once. "I imagine it must have been hard," he said, "to carry the truth so close to your heart and no one would believe you, for the word of kings are the words of law and justice."

"Not all of them." Arya thought of Jon; of his smile, which was hers and hers alone. Of his words, which were always kind to her. "Just the one."

* * *

 **AN: Cringe. Like, don't get me wrong, I love this chapter, but I've always been a person who has a hard time dealing with romance, so the Gendrya bits were absolute torture to write. I hope you guys like them, though. I've definitely seen worse! Lol, no. Also, sorry it's late! By a lot! As I've said, life is busy. I had a hard time editing this chapter because my writing has developed immensely from when I first wrote this, ages ago, plus a load of spoilers came out which differ from my original plot and brought great discouragement.**

 **Please, for the love of God, review!**

 **Much love! xx**


	12. Interlude I

ELEVEN; Interlude I

Cersei was furious.

She'd been raging for days about a hundred different things, all of which were meaningless. Her mood grew more petulant and disturbed with every minute that passed. She paced her chamber and wrung her hands, muttering and hissing and stomping her feet. Once she had even begun to laugh.

Jamie was no fool; he remembered the signs from Aerys, remembered how slow yet swift he had succumbed to the madness, remembered every little thing that had irked him then and haunted him now. It was as though he was relieving his younger years, only this time he was watching the only person he had in this world fall into the chasm of insanity.

Surprisingly, Jamie was relieved. He had hoped to have an excuse to end this. Prayed to have a reason not to stay. Now, she'd given him such, in her wailings. "You will be the Lord of Riverrun," she told him. "Now that Walder Frey is dead, it is truly ours for the taking. Go, march, gather the men. And when you're done slaughtering the Freys I want you to ride out north and bring me Sansa Stark's head. Use all of our men, if need be."

He wanted to scoff. _What men? Those who have lost all purpose and moral? Who have no reason to follow us?_ "We only have four-thousand left, Cersei. Even the fucking north has more than that. You want me to take the entire army and leave the city undefended?"

Cersei stopped. "You do not need to be concerned with such things. Are you refusing to obey my command?"

"No." _Perhaps I might see my wench again_. "I will ride out on first light."

She nodded, returning to her musings. "They killed Euron, I just know it," she was saying. "I needed his ships, we have so little. If only he'd taken those dragons... I could have burned the Stark bitch alive..." She grinned. "Wouldn't that have been wonderful, Jamie? To see those that have wronged us turn to naught but ash?"

 _How did she wrong you? She was a little girl. Terrified, alone... If only I'd had Tyrion's strength_. Jamie only nodded, though. He could not voice his thoughts, for surely she could easily proclaim him a traitor to the crown and have him murdered for less than he deserved.

Jamie rose. "If you have no more need of me—?"

Instantly she was across the room, clasping his hands in her own. Once they had been warm. Now there were only cold, pale, and dead. "Stay with me tonight. I want you."

Jamie gently extracted her hands from his own. "No," he said. "I am done with that."

Cersei scowled. "With me? Or with everyone?"

 _With you. You killed Tommen, the only good thing I ever made. He's dead because of your folly, you foolish woman. Gods, Tyrion and Father were right all along and I did not bother to see it._ "Please, Cersei. I am not in the mood."

"I am the queen," Cersei pointed out. "You do as I say. If I say you will lie with me, you will lie with me."

Jamie took a step back. "Not tonight." _Not ever again._

Cersei reached out and struck him, clear across the cheek. Jamie lurched back, but he was used to her blows by now. Gently massaging the stinging spot he glared. "What is your problem?"

She blinked as though confused. "I can slap you whenever I like," she said firmly. "Now come into my bed, Jamie."

He wouldn't. "Bronn is waiting for me," he lied. "I must get back to my chambers."

Cersei called after him. Halfway into the antechamber she was screaming and throwing things like an insolent child having a tantrum. Jamie walked away, and then ran, for he could not spurn her affections forever. _Tomorrow. I will be gone by tomorrow._

* * *

The sun rose earlier than it had taken to doing. Jamie knew what it meant; he had seen the white raven, signifying the change in seasons. Winter was upon them in its fury and memory. Jamie would be lucky if he could even find Riverrun, under all of the inevitable snow.

"Just when I was gettin' comfortable," Bronn muttered as they bridled their horses. "Gods, I'm fuckin' done with that place. This is the last time I ride north, do you 'ear me? I don't care what your shit queen commands. She's mad, they say."

Jamie knew Bronn was only trying to get a rise out of him. But he would not succumb. It was pointless to defend her, for Bronn's words were true. Jamie had seen it himself, more than once. No doubt by the time he got back she would be singing over the blackened corpses of Sansa Stark and Jon Snow — perhaps even the dragon queen.

"You're in a foul mood today, aren't you?"

"I am about to embark on a quest I have only just completed," Jamie said. "Allow me a moment of self-pity."

Bronn chuckled. "Your brother would have gotten rid o' the Freys in the first place, you know. They were slimy little shits. Don't know why you trusted 'em."

"It's not like they betrayed us," Jamie said incredulously. "Walder Frey was murdered."

"By one o' his sons, I reckon," Bronn said carelessly, leaning against the mare. "Now they're all fightin' the other, tryin' to see who gets what. Ain't no cure for bein' a cunt, my lord. And cunts they've always been, seein' as they betrayed them Starks for nothin' more than a sack o' gold or two."

Jamie rolled his eyes. "They got a lot more than that," he said. "They Freys have wealth aplenty. What they wanted was power, and it was power they got."

"And now they're too busy slittin' one another's throats to use it," Bronn added brightly. He mounted his horse and so Jamie did the same.

They started out briskly, watching the rusted steel portcullis rise at a gratingly slow pace. Jamie rode out ahead with Bronn at his side as had become their custom. They did not speak until they had left the city, with their meager host behind them. Only three-thousand had come, for the rest had refused to partake. At least, that was what Jamie had told Cersei. In reality, he'd instructed the last thousand to remain.

He knew she would not be pleased, which only prompted him more. Perhaps she would just execute him and get it over with.

But no. He could not think like that. He was the last of the male Lannister line, assuming Tyrion had died. He had to carry on.

* * *

Tyrion poured from the ewer, watching the crystal clear liquid spill into the cup. He detested the flavour of water, or watered down wine, or truly anything that was not made from alcohol and grape juice.

Jon watched him. The man's eyes traced over his stunted form with something akin to both fear and admiration. Tyrion was glad for it; for whatever reason, the young man had recognised him as an equal of sorts, on par with his sister at least. So far he had heeded most of what Tyrion advised.

"Why did she make you her Hand?" Jon inquired, shifting where he stood as though his own words unnerved him. "You have said she detests Lannisters, with good reason. Not that I am intending to offend you, but what was it that you did to earn her trust?"

"Are you worried about myself, or yourself, Jon?" Tyrion set down the ewer and turned to him, clasping the already dripping goblet with both hands. He sipped, and then proceeded to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

Jon frowned. "Both, I suppose."

Tyrion grinned. "General self-interest is nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "Especially given your... unique circumstances. If I were you, I would have melted down every blade in the nearby vicinity, I think."

Jon's lips quirked. "That would have been very... Aerys Targaryen of you."

Tyrion laughed. _Did he truly just jest with me? Winter is here after all._ "We share common ancestry, Aerys and I." He commented wryly. "Perhaps I have more of his blood in me than I previously assumed."

Jon seated himself behind the desk of the former Lord Stark and laced his hands. "You have neglected to answer my question."

Tyrion sighed. He hauled himself up to sit across from his friend. "I presented myself to Daenerys as a gift of sorts upon our first meeting," he said. "There was a man with me whom had previously travelled with and advised the queen, but he had betrayed her. Jorah Mormont. Do you know of him?"

"Of course. His exile was a great scandal among the northern folk for near on two years. The Mormonts no longer possess the shame of his poaching; they have more than redeemed themselves."

Tyrion nodded. "He wished to redeem himself by throwing me at the feet of Daenerys, expecting all to be forgiven. Both unfortunately and fortunately she sent him off again and deigned to meet with me, to sort out my alliances. She spared me the gift of mercy when I told her that I held no love for my family."

Jon purses his lips. "You killed your father." It was not a question.

"I did." Tyrion sipped his water, feeling suddenly parched. _This would be going much better if I was not sober._ "He lied to me for many years about a very... Personal matter. That combined with all of the awful things he had done to both me and everyone else, including your family, I feel my kinslaying is more than justified."

Jon leaned back. "You do not regret it?"

"Not at all." Tyrion gulped down the rest of his drink and set the goblet on the table gently. "Do you regret the killing you have done?"

Jon was silent for a long moment. "It... I did not enjoy it. I did my duty, I did what was best, and it was difficult to say the least. I think I might, Tyrion. Does that make me weak?"

He looked very vulnerable, suddenly. Tyrion's heart stopped, for he could recall in that moment a young boy standing in the snow with his wolf at his side, tears blurring his vision and fists balled as he towered over the dwarf. A young boy, who had been lied to and sent off to live out his days at the Wall, away from his true family.

"No," Tyrion said. He reached across the desk as best as he was able and took Jon's hand. "No, it does not. It makes you _good_. That is something that I myself envy greatly. If only every man had the strength to feel remorse."

Jon nodded. Tyrion supposed he may as well get back to his tale. "The queen allowed me to advise her," he said slowly. "We attended a games of sorts, in Meereen. A very traditional event in which men kill one another for sport. The queen was incredibly reluctant to allow it, but with the fear of Meereen rebelling against her she had no choice but to let it happen. I could see her hesitance, her disgust..."

Tyrion fidgeted, recalling the brawl. "A group called the Sons of the Harpy attacked her, then. They did not like the way she had changed their ways; abolishing slavery and putting the masters to the sword for what they had done. I suppose it was then that she decided I did not need to die, for I did not use the fight as a distraction to execute her."

He drummed his fingers on the leg of his trousers. "Drogon, her dragon, came and rescued us, as well as Jorah Mormont himself. He has a miraculous habit of showing up at just the right moment." He shook his head in annoyance. "The queen was gone, and we had no choice but to run Meereen in her stead while she was gone. I took up the mantle and negotiated with the slavers, who eventually betrayed us and attacked the city."

Jon frowned. "Did she show up with her dragons, again?"

"That she did," Tyrion confirmed with a hearty chuckle. "The slavers were killed for what they did, and we took the remainder of their armada and sailed here. But before that, she named me her Hand. I swore her my council and in turn she gave me her trust. If she can befriend a Lannister, Jon... Think what she could do to a Stark."

Jon's face reddened at what Tyrion had been implying. He pushed back from his chair and marched straight over to the side table, where a jug of wine was waiting. Tyrion itched to pour himself a chalice, but both Sansa and Jon had insisted he stay sober.

His fingers twitched with a want that would not be fulfilled.

* * *

Olenna's knife slipped through the cheese with ease. She cut with percision and confidence, uncaring of the reprimanding and disbelieving glances she was receiving from those bloody snakes.

"You are quite the observant lot," she commented wryly, chewing. "What would you say if I told you to leave my private chambers and never return?"

The tallest snake shrugged. "We would come back, anyway," she said. "But—"

"No, stop. I do not want to hear anymore." She had not the mind nor the time for such things. She was an old woman, and getting older. Her son, her grandchildren, her entire bloody household. All of them were gone. Lost to the mad ravings of a widowed bitch who did not know her place in the natural order of things.

Well if Olenna was a hawk, then she was nothing more than a confused, arrogant kitten waiting to be devoured.

Olenna pushed up from the table and grabbed her cane, meaning to take a walk in the gardens. She and Margaery had done so many times, talking and judging, with Olenna as a teacher and she a willing student.

Now Margaery was ash.

Bitterness filled her. The shortest snake made to follow but Olenna held up a withered hand. "Do not follow me," she ordered. "If I cannot be alone where I am meant to be then I will be alone where I am not."

With that she shuffled out, ignoring the jibes the snakes made when they assumed her old ears were out of hearing distance. The called her a wrinkled old bat, a shrewd lemon. Olenna had half a mind to tell them where they could stuff their lemons, but she did not have the energy for it.

 _I need some renewal,_ she thought to herself. _Some purpose._

Indeed there was the purpose of vengeance... But after that, what? Her line would die out as soon as she did, and given her age that would not be very far away. She had but a few cousins to carry on the name of Tyrell. All of them more unworthy than the one who came before them.

Margaery had been queen. At least there was that small comfort; that she had managed to achieve her granddaughter's dreams. But that had been stolen from her, in the end. Now Olenna did not give two silver stags who sat upon that ruddy iron chair, so long as she could watch the woman whom now sat upon it be devoured by wolves.

Daenerys Targaryen had yet to arrive. Olenna was not worried, yet. And honestly, even if the young woman did not show, Olenna would still come out on top; she had a plan.

Lord Mathis was in the gardens, standing by a trickling fountain. She had not expected to find him here, but no one informed her of anything, these days.

"My lord," she called.

"Lady Olenna," he ducked his head in a false show of bashfulness when he caught sight of her. He looked well enough, she decided; his hair has grown longer and was tied back with a leather band, and his eyes were alight with a suppressed fire. Useful flames, she thought wryly.

"What brings you here on this fine day?" She inquired, trying to keep the bitterness off of her tongue. Her cane wavered.

Mathis shrugged. "I rule the Stormlands, as we speak. The Baratheons are all dead, and I seek—"

"All of the Baratheons?" Olenna managed a dry smirk. "I seem to recall Robert having dozens of bastards."

"They are illegitimate, my lady—"

"The have his blood, my lord." She paused significantly, there. Waiting for the message to sink in. Then again, Mathis was rather dull... "You do not," she clarified, and he blinked stupidly. "More to the point, I am sure that more than a few of Robert's get survived that wide-spread massacre the Boy King issued. Perhaps instead of seeking this power for yourself, you would do good on finding one of them."

Mathis cleared his throat, tittering on the tips of his toes. Loras had used to do that, she remembered. And Margaery, too. Like a bird waiting to fly off of its perch, eager to sing a spring song. And yet Mathis was a barrel-chested bull of a man. "My lady, I understand. I have done this, you must know; sought out my former king's natural-born children, I mean. I have found only one; Mya Stone, who is but a woman, and..."

At this, he trailed off, seemingly having realised his err. Olenna raised an eyebrow. "I am but a woman, my dear Mathis," she commented. "A woman and a ruler. Do you fault me?"

"No, my lady." Mathis had turned unexpectedly to steel. "Not at all. Forgive me. I only meant that she is young, inexperienced, and knows nothing of the Stormlands. She is living in the Vale, they say."

"And there are no Stormborn bastards?"

"Not remaining to us," Mathis said. "Not since... Since Edric Storm was murdered."

"Mmm... Indeed." Olenna put on a false, but convincing show of contemplation. "You are not a suitable delegate for the Stormlands, you know. You should have sent someone else instead. Someone with more knowledge."

He winced. "Perhaps."

"Oh, no, absolutely," Olenna began to circle the fountain. "There is no 'perhaps,' about it, my dear boy. You are simply awful." She shook her head. "Now, find a bastard. I know a woman who can have him legitimised in time, but he must agree to swear fealty to her... Not declare independence like all of the other hooligans around us."

Mathis nodded, hands behind his back. Olenna turned sharply and suddenly on him. "And, my dear boy, if I should suddenly discover this new Lord Baratheon to have been... Done in, shall we say... It is you who will suffer the consequences. And believe me when I say; those consequences will be dire." She frowned. "Now get out of my sight, you blubbering fool."

He was gone, and she was alone in the gardens; surrounded by flowers which would be dead soon.

* * *

 **AN: I suck. There, I've said it. I've spoken the truth. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry this took me ages to upload. I've been busy. Also, should I up the rating to M? Comment down below!**

 **Much love! xx**


	13. Chapter 13

TWELVE; Jon

"I don't want you to go."

Sansa's voice was quiet — nearly as quiet as the snow falling softly on the flagstone ground. It was a mere whisper of what they both knew it could be. Her hand clasped Jon's own, leather gloves coiling around his palm. "I have to," he told her. _You are the one who insisted upon this, sister_ , was his internal thought, but he did not speak it. She was suffering enough already. She did not need his bitterness as another burden. "I will be back."

"You can't know that," was her hurried reply. Her eyes were wide. "You could fall in battle, or..." with a sharp intake of breath she stopped herself, sensing his well-concealed distress. Naturally, he was not yet skilled enough to hide anything from her. "Anything could happen," she said instead. "I should be going with you."

Her words sounded more resentful than worried, but they had both agreed that she would stay here. Both agreed that Petyr Baelish would stay here, rather than come along with Jon, so that Sansa could deal with him herself. They had both decided upon every plan with equal amounts of discussion. Remaining in their home had been Sansa's idea, and he had willingly gone along with it; staying here would mean she was safe, at least from outside threats. It would mean that a Stark remained in Winterfell.

"They're _my_ lands," she was saying, now.

Jon blinked. "Sansa," he said, tiredly, "please do not do this." _Not now. I am so tired_. Tired from every council meeting, and from every dream. They were growing more and more frequent with every night that passed, and Jon had no idea how to stop them.

Every night, death crept from the shadowed crevices of his mind. He saw beds of blood and blackened rose petals falling from pale fingers. He heard feverish whispers of names long forgotten, and the sound of a man splashing into water after his armour was loudly destroyed.

Sansa pulled him into her arms, which startled him out of his thoughts well enough. She was clutching him tightly, and stifling her sobs into the crook of his neck. Jon held her, too. He worried for her, suddenly; worried, for Baelish would still be here and he would not be able to protect her. Nor would he be able to guide her in ruling the north... But who was he to council her, anyway? Most likely it would flourish in his absence.

"I love you," she said.

Jon could not bite back his grin. "I love you, too." He savoured every moment such as this one, where she was a true sister. Where they did not have to distress over one another, just then, for there in his arms she was safer than she ever could have been.

"You promise you will come back?"

"Aye," he pulled away and kissed her brow lightly. "Don't worry about me, San."

She managed a half-smile. "I won't," she said, "as long as you promise to do the same for me."

He was about to answer, but the sight he caught from the corner of his eye took away every word. There, on the other side of the courtyard, was Tormund and Brienne. They were embracing. Awkwardly, if the expression on Brienne's face was any tell. Jon bit back a laugh and turned to his sister. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"

Her gaze was overly-innocent. "Of course not."

A Podrick approached, clasping the reins of Jon's destrier. He took them, and swiftly mounted his horse. "Goodbye, Sansa."

* * *

Castle Cerwyn was not overly large. In fact, it was smaller than even Castle Black — and yet Jonelle Cerwyn had managed to accommodate Jon and all of his men — providing tents for an encampment and supplying food and warm mead; the woman was full of hospitality.

Jon was more than grateful. He had expressed this on more than one occasion, but Jonelle would have none of it. She merely took it all in grace as though an army of thousands showed up on her doorstep with every moon's turn.

Jon supposed she had seen larger than this. Their force, as it was now, came to only six-thousand. They would join the forces of House Reed once passing though the neck, which would add about a thousand — more than enough, Jon thought, to take the Riverlands back.

It was not enough to say that Jon was fearful. He of course did not say it, but he could feel the unwanted nerves coiling around his heartstrings. He did not want it to exist, but there it was; a deep fear of death which took away sleep and left him with haunting thoughts.

The night was fretful. Jon lay in his bed, staring up at the likely rotted ceiling. The light flickered from the corner, creating a calm dim which lulled him off easily.

 _Her eyes were like slate, and her skin porcelain, dotted with silver beads of sweat. Ned knelt beside her as they whispered feverish words of goodbye and vows of forever. "Promise me, Ned," she whispered, hand coming up to cup his cheek, but failing._

 _The babe in his arms did not stir, but rather slept peacefully as his mother died. Ned stared down at the body of his sister. She looked almost doll-like. Gently, he slid up onto the bed and held her body in his arms, with the baby somehow nestled between them, her partially holding him. They stayed like that for hours, until Ned's tears dried on his cheeks and the candles were down to their last moments._

 _Howland stood in the doorway. His hands gripped the sacred sword of House Dayne; Dawn. "Ned," he was saying. "Ned, we ought to leave..."_

 _Their eyes met, and the grief must have passed between them. Suddenly Howland's eyes were filled with tears. He rushed over to them and climbed upon the bed. If not for his patchy beard, he could have been mistaken for a child. Slowly and mournfully he extracted Lyanna's bloody body from Ned's arms. They stared at her, broken, and then the babe._

 _"He'll be good, like her," Howland whispered._

 _"And brave," Ned added, thinking of her last words. With a breathy whimper he cradled the babe close to his chest. "Gods, she was brave, Howland..."_

 _His companion nodded. "I know," he said, for he did. Ned stroked the babe's soft dark hair from his brow and kissed him there. Howland peered at the swaddled infant with curiosity. "He looks nothing like Rhaegar."_

 _No. No, indeed; this babe was all Stark. His eyes were slate. His skin was porcelain. Ned held him, his sister's child, and felt a quaking fear take root in his gut as a plan formulated in his mind. Cat would not like it, nor would the babe, as he grew — but Lyanna would have condoned it. She would have given up everything to keep her son safe._

 _Ned stared at her peaceful body. She was lying limply against the damp white sheets. "Only you could tear apart the whole world without even trying," he told her._

 _She did not reply. Howland held out his arms, and so Ned passed on the babe. "What's his name?" He inquired, as Ned pulled his sister up, prepared to carry her out._

 _Ned did not reply, at first. Something about the way she looked now reminded him of their childhood days, when she would climb up the wierwood tree despite the fact that she had been forbidden from it. Benjen had always copied her, and she would grin down at him ruefully as he scolded her. The sun always shined when Lyanna was smiling, even if it was snowing._

 _"What's his name, Ned?"_

 _Blinking, Ned met Howland's eyes. "Jon," he said, a tear trickling down the end of his nose._

 _Jon Snow. Perhaps he would smile like Lyanna. At least Ned would have that one small gift. A blessing in this dark, cruel world._

Jon shot awake. It was dawn, and a horn was sounding.

* * *

They flooded into the hall; a small band of so-called rapers, thieves, and cravens — covered in mud, grime, and worn leathers. A few carried weapons. Others carried shields with no sigil carved into the wood. Jon watched them all with anxious eyes, though this was concealed rather well, he thought, behind a mask of indifference. He had worked on mastering his facade for many a moon. He had deemed it necessary, ever since his initial suspicions had arisen.

It had started with blue roses. He was not quite sure where it would end.

The brothers filed into disorganised places, eyes flitting around from one lord to the next. All of them were assembled before Jon, and all of them were eyeing him with expressions of great distain.

But Jon knew none of them, and it was not his place to judge them as anything lower than people. He had done that with the men of the Watch, which had turned out to be a half-mistake. He had not had the mind for prejudice ever since.

A man with a patch over his eye stepped forward. "Your Grace," he called up to Jon. "I present to you the Brotherhood Without Banners."

Jon stepped down from the raised platform, studying the man he now knew to be Lord Beric Dondarrion. "My father knew you," he stated, rather plainly. "He ordered you to arrest Ser Gregor Clegane, if I was informed correctly."

Beric smiled slightly. "You were, Your Grace."

"And yet you did not."

His head lowered, only just. "I did not, indeed. And it pains me greatly—"

"They say you died," Jon added, almost desperate. He kept it from his voice, thank the gods, but he was sure that it was plain in his eyes, which searched Beric's own for any sign of a falsehood.

There was none when the other man said, "I did. Many times."

Jon flexed his hand. "And you were brought back, by a Red Priest of Asshai."

Beric opened his mouth to reply, when through the crowds came a rather plump man clad in bright red robes — not dissimilar to the ones Melisandre had always worn. He carried a skin of wine and swaggered closer with a nearly drunken gaze, but again there was no lie in his eyes as he confirmed Jon's words. "That was me," he said carelessly. "Brought back Beric seven times, now, Your Grace."

Jon blinked. "Seven times?" He looked to Beric, who nodded grimly.

"Oh, who are we to believe this hogwash?!" demanded Lord Manderly, leaning forward over the table with narrowed eyes. "Look at them, my king! Most like they are half-mad with starvation and exposure! You should not take their words to heart."

"I've already taken one too many knives," Jon muttered, forgetting himself.

Beric heard, but no one else in the room reacted. Jon sighed. "It is my duty as a warden to hear the words of every man and woman who crosses into the north should they come before me. And as a king, it is my duty to hold audience, Lord Manderly. You need not be present for it."

It had not been meant as a jibe, but Lord Manderly went red and settled back into his chair nonetheless.

"Why are you here, Lord Beric?"

The scarred man grinned. "Two reasons, Your Grace," he said, appearing mirthful. "The first being something I must return to you, but let us wait on that score."

Jon raised a brow. "And the second?"

The man studied Jon for a moment, and then promptly — and rather ungracefully — fell to his knees. "I wish to swear fealty to the House of Stark; my sword is yours and my life is yours. I cannot speak for my men, but given recent events I can attest to their willingness to fight for your cause, Your Grace."

There was a silence. Jon made to speak, to ask just what it was Lord Beric claimed his propose to be, when another voice — from the wrong end of the hall — spoke. "Oh, for Gods' sakes, _get up_ , Beric!"

Time stopped as she emerged from the group of men. She looked the very depiction of winter itself; a long, solemn Stark face and steel grey eyes, dark hair braided back above with the rest falling loose and tangled around her shoulders, a cloak of grey fur clasped across her chest, with the direwolf of her house emblazoned into the leather of her jerkin, and a crown of blue winter roses around her head, for whatever reason. She held herself with the fierce pride of a wolf and the strength of a thousand winds. Yes, if winter was a person, this girl would be it.

He could recognise her in an instant. It seemed everything had stopped, for just a moment — just that moment, where they stood not five feet from one another, both wide-eyed and without air in their lungs or a beating heart.

I wish you could come with us, she had told him.

Stick 'em with the pointy end, he had said. Don't tell Sansa! Was what they had yelled together, as they so often did. A pact of sorts. His little sister, whom he loved with all of his heart. Skinny and small and sad; the lone wolf, like him. But sweet, he knew. Quick like no one could be.

"I thought you could use the men," she told him, swallowing, with tear-stained cheeks.

Jon did not know how to react. He did not know what to say, or think. She was here. Gods above, she was here. She was crying. Could he be crying, as well? It did not matter; for he found himself grinning like an idiot, just as he had the last time he had seen her. She could always make him smile, even when no one else was able.

"Arya," he said; for the only thing he could comprehend in that moment was the fact that she was not an arm's length from him, alive, and there.

Neither of them took another step. All eyes were upon them. Jon suddenly felt ashamed for not embracing her already, as he had done with Sansa. He felt guilty, but then again Arya had always been the bold one...

"Lord Davos," Jon called, "deal with these men. Have the young boys squire, and affix the soldiers with armour, food, and drink."

The grey-clad man nodded, jerking his head. Manderly and the rest of the lords rose as well, taking their cue from the grey-clad advisor. The Brotherhood filed out; one after the other. Beric and Thoros departed with a nod for both Jon and Arya, and with that they were alone. He felt suddenly empty.

"Sansa?" Arya inquired, once the door was shut behind them.

Jon swallowed. "Winterfell," he replied, rare smile finally faltering.

Ghost, by the fire, had risen to his feet and slunk over. He circled Arya, who was still short enough that she did not have to kneel to pet him. "I found Nymeria," she said, though Jon was unsure whether she was speaking to him or the wolf. "Would you like to see her again?"

Ghost's tail wagged, and he made the weakest of whining sounds. Jon was unamazed; the wolf was silent for all, with the exemption of himself. Arya looked up at him again, and so he nodded to let her know that it was alright.

With that she was walking outside. Jon felt as though he was shattering. With her departure — momentary as it was — he sank on to the nearest surface; a trestle table, which was covered in parchment, candles, and maps. He was shaking. Gods above, this was already so difficult. His own fears ate away at him; what if she no longer loved him or cared for him? What if she was not the same Arya he remembered? Perhaps that last one was unfair. He was not the same person, after all.

Arya returned with her wolf. Jon had composed himself by the time she re-entered. He saw that her eyes were red and glistening, but he made no comment. Nymeria was massive; bigger than Gjost, nearly, with glowing golden eyes and matted grey fur. The two wolves bounded toward one another, embracing in the peculiar way that wolves did. They nipped one another on the ear, sniffing madly. Arya laughed, and Jon turned to her. "I... I do not know where to begin," he said.

She chewed her lip, as she always had when she was small. He was glad for the remaining habit. "I don't, either, really." She hesitated. And then she was barrelling at him. Jon stumbled back as he caught her, and held her tight in his arms. Fingers clutched at leather and fur, grasping fistfuls of hair. He was numb but also not; the only thing he could think was her name; _Arya. Arya. Arya._

"I missed you," they whispered. Together.

Arya pulled back and stared at him. There were tears freely streaming down her cold pink cheeks. She laughed, for whatever reason, and peppered his face with kisses as she had always done before. "I really did miss you," she told him. "More than anyone." Her feet had returned to the floor. It was then that Jon realised how tall she was. And how short her hair had been cut, and how many scars adorned her skin.

Jon stared at this changed girl for a moment longer before pulling her into a second crushing embrace. She sank into his arms. "You're all grown up," he told her, cupping the back of her neck. It was cold, like morning frost. There were tears blurring his vision. "I am so sorry I was not there for you..."

"You don't need to be sorry," she told him, pulling back and sniffling. "You went to the Wall because you had no place else to go. I'm alive because of you. I had a way to protect myself..." They both looked down at her sword. A small thing, it was. Even with her, now. But she had kept it all the same.

"Father would have killed me if he had known I'd given you that."

She smiled slyly. He'd missed that smile. "That's why I didn't tell him," she said.

Jon shifted his footing. He wanted so badly to tell her in that moment; to speak the words that had so shattered him. To bring life to the dim vision which played over in the back of his mind. To give in to the truth which he had refused to acknowledge for so long. But he did not, because in that moment he knew, somehow, that she would not understand. Not yet. "Arya... Why were you with the Brotherhood? Why them, of all people?"

She made to run a hand through her hair, before remembering the roses. Gently, Jon extracted them from her dark locks and set them on the nearby table. She looked... she looked like his mother. Just as everyone had always said.

 _Everyone always said Arya looked like Aunt Lyanna_ , Sansa had said once, _and, if not for the age difference, that you and Arya could be twins._

Had it truly been so obvious? All along, there had been so many hints toward the question that had agonised him for so long. He felt so weighed down by this burden. Was that how father had felt? Was that why he had not breathed one word of the truth, and instead left Jon utterly in the dark and alone?

"I was with them before," his sister said. "When I was younger. After Father died—" her voice cracked, and so Jon took her hand. This gave her the courage she already had. "After he died, I ran away. Yorin found me. He knew you, didn't he?"

"Aye," said Jon, remembering the man whom had journeyed with him part-way to the Wall and then gone south to recruit for the Watch. "Not well, though."

Arya swallowed. "All the same," she said. "He cut my hair, and told me I was a boy, and that I was to go with him north. He was bringing a bunch of greenboys to the Wall, and he was going to take me to Winterfell."

Jon closed his eyes, breathing heavily and thinking mournfully about how close they had both been, and yet how far. "I would have taken care of you," he told her, brushing away one of her tears. "I would have kept you safe, I swear."

"We both know I don't need protecting, Jon," she told him, with a weak smile.

Jon managed the smallest of laughs. "The offer still stands," he told her. "I'm always going to do what I can for you. You know that."

Arya nodded. She wound her arms around his waist and buried her face in the crook of his neck, breath hot against his flesh. "I wanted to see you again so badly," she whispered. "There were so many nights I stayed awake thinking about every moment we'd ever had together, and how much I wanted to just... finish a sentence with you, or have you muss my hair and call me—"

"Little sister," he recited. Arya squeezed him and sobbed. "Gods, I _missed_ you. Every day."

"For true?" She looked up at him with earnest slate eyes.

"For true," he said. Arya sniffed roughly. They stayed together, unwilling to let go, for many more minutes.

"They're calling me Princess," she blurted suddenly, lips curled downward into some form of distaste... but in her eyes he could see satisfaction, and pride. He knew that such a group of men would not call her that for nothing. Of course she had done something to earn their respect. She was Arya.

"You are one," he told her, pulling her over to a cushioned bench seat so that they could sit. "And Sansa is queen."

" _Queen_?!" demanded Arya, pulling back to look at him with incredulous eyes. Then she rolled them. "Of course. It's just like her to swoop up and take whatever crown is offered."

Jon purses his lips, feeling suddenly at unease. "She has been through a lot, Arya," he told her. "She was tortured, and beaten, and yet she still stood beside me when I needed her the most. She did not balk."

He thought, suddenly, of the Halfhand's words. Gods, he had not recalled them to memory in ages. There had been so much since then... he was struck with how much had happened since the Halfhand's death. Ygritte, Hardhome, Olly, Sansa...

Arya was speaking. He realised, ashamed, that he had not been listening. "—so have I. It's not like this has all been easy. I haven't... I don't even remember the last time I slept in a bed, Jon. I don't remember the last time I truly felt like I was safe. Gods above, I was stabbed in the stomach!"

His eyes widened. "What?"

His sister nodded with earnest. "Yes. There was this girl, in Braavos—"

"Braavos? What in the seven hells were you doing there?"

"Shh! Let me tell the story, Jon!" She glared, though she did not mean it and they both knew that. He held her hand tightly as he explained about the girl she called the Waif, and Lady Crane, and Jaqen H'gar. By the end of her tale, Jon did not know what to say.

"It's a lot," she amended, "but it happened."

He nodded.

"And I know you think I was an idiot, just walking out there like that."

He nodded again, numbly.

"And I'm sorry."

At that, he snapped out of his daze. "Don't be," he said, firmly, knitting his eyebrows together. "Gods, it was not your fault, Arya."

She chewed her lip and rested her head on his shoulder. "They said you'd died, Jon," she whispered, out of the blue, as they stared at their now sleeping wolves.

"It's true," he told her.

Briefly she met his eyes, and they stared at one another relatively calmly, before she shrugged. "Your heart is beating," she said. "And you're you. I know you're you. Believe me, I do; I've got ways of telling. You're different, but you're Jon. You're still my brother."

With her last words, the tight, condensed mass of worry, sadness, and anger he had been carrying around for so long unravelled. He found himself crying; holding on to her as she did the same to him. He felt young, again. For a moment, he was only four-and-ten and she a mere nine — forgetting the fact that that were both wounded, both wolves, and both had been so alone for so long that they did not remember what it felt like to have someone.

"I'm not _good_ , Arya," he whispered.

She dug her small fingers into his back. "Oh, shut up," she hissed shakily. "Just stop. All you've ever done is beat yourself down. I think you're brilliant, and that's all that matters. I love you. Isn't that... is that enough?"

It was. He sobbed, and held her, saying as much.

* * *

Jon stared at Sandor Clegane with an air of indifference. The Hound stared back, lips curled into a snarl and burnt face shining in the morning sunlight. It would only be out for so long before it faded back away, behind many grey clouds.

Jon worried that one day it might not re-emerge again, and they would all suffer through the darkest of nights. The longest one.

"You have protected both of my sisters," Jon said, and they both looked briefly to Arya, who was perched on a desk with her crown of flowers and skinny sword. "And yet, you have also performed dishonourable acts."

"Under the orders of shit kings," the Hound spat, bitterly. "Are you a shit king, Bastard?"

Jon did not wince at the jibe, nor did he mean to make any sort of reply to it at all, but Arya did as she always had. "Shut up, Hound," she warned, glaring, "or I'll skewer you."

"Haven't you already tried that enough times?" The Hound retorted dryly.

Arya's eyes widened. "I was smaller, then!" She cried indignantly.

Jon sighed. "That's enough," he said to the both of them, as though they were children. "I will not have you bickering and wasting time." With a deep breath, he met Sandor Clegane's eyes again. "I want you to confess your crimes. Right here, right now. I want you to be honest about them, for once in your life. Even if they were ordered of you, I want you to tell me."

Clegane stared at him for a long moment, and then spat on the ground. "Fuck that," he said.

"Do it, Hound!" Arya had slipped off of the desk and was now standing between them, glowering up at his burnt face. "That's an order from your queen."

Jon raised a brow, torn between being impressed and dumbfounded, for suddenly the Hound was rattling off a list of his crimes. Surprisingly, there were not many. He spoke of how he had killed a great many men, and how most of them had deserved it. He spoke of murdering Mycah, the butcher's boy, and of his failure to save Sansa Stark.

Jon balled his fists at the last listed. He did not look forward to having to deal with another man who was both far too old and easily undeserving of his sister, but it seemed that such things would be never-ending. And admittedly exhausting.

Arya only rolled her eyes. "What do you want to do with him?"

Jon weighed his options. Finally, he decided upon the one that was least damaging. "You will serve as part of our household guard, for the time being. You will remain with us until we liberate Riverrun, and then you will come back to Winterfell and remain there until the gods take you for themselves."

The Hound huffed. "That's the worst fucking punishment I've ever heard."

"That is because it is not a punishment," Jon retorted easily. He flexed his hand. "You may leave, for now."

And so Sandor Clegane marched out of Jon's privy chamber. The door was closed from the outside. Most likely it was Podrick.

Arya folded her arms across her chest. "You don't hate him, do you?"

Jon frowned. "It is hard to."

"Dammit!" Groaning, she pulled herself back on to the desk. "I was hoping I wouldn't be the only person in the world who thinks he's a worthless piece of shit."

Jon sighed. "He has worth. Every man does."

"Sandor Clegane isn't a man," she spat, "he's a bloody monster. He was on my list for so long."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Your list?"

Hastily, she drew Needle and began to sharpen it. "It's nothing," she muttered, "just a bunch of names."

"Alright," he conceded, after a moment. "And I don't suppose Clegane made that list because he murdered the butcher's boy?"

"He wasn't just the butcher's boy, Jon," she snapped hotly, "he was my friend. I was only — we were only doing what you told me to do. Practise every day, so that I could get better. We were only fighting with sticks, and then stupid Sansa and stupid Joffery came out of nowhere and ruined everything. I lost Nymeria because of that little cunt—"

" _Arya_."

She flushed. "Sorry."

"You spent too much time around Theon Greyjoy when we were children," he told her decidedly.

Arya shrugged. "They're just words," she said. "And anyway, I picked that one up from Prince Cunt himself. He called me that when he was trying to murder me with his stupid sword, Lion's Tooth."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I warned you he was a little shit."

She grinned back. "And I listened, didn't I?"

Their banter was easy. Easier than it had ever been, it seemed to Jon — but perhaps that was only because of how much time had passed; they were so eager to get back to the way things were, that they were avoided the topics they would have discussed most. He had missed her, and she had missed him, and that was honestly all that mattered to him then. Not the truth, which ate away at his heart, and tainted every memory of his father and home.

He could not acknowledge that, just yet. He could not think of that, for it was too much to even comprehend.

He could not be the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He was only a bastard king. A bitter wind which would pass, given time. And after that, there would be nothing.

* * *

 **AN: I went into my documents to publish the latest WIH chapter, discovered that THIS was the chapter I finally got to upload, and died. I did. Oh, my goodness, I am so happy to be sharing Jon+Arya sibling feels with you lot.**

 **The line "Get up, Beric!" Was taken and modified, from another fic which I can't remember the name of, but if, by chance, you know what I'm talking about, comment down below and ill give them credit.**

 **Thank you for reading! Much love xx**


	14. Chapter 14

THIRTEEN; Daenerys

Her hands shook as she walked from the Maester's tower to Yara's chambers. The door was wide open, and Theon Greyjoy slept in her bed. His face was pale, like milkgrass, and his one good eye was shut. Most of his head had been bandaged, as well as his blistered arm. Yara sat by his side, half-asleep.

"Yara," Dany called. Her voice cracked.

"Leave," ordered the other woman. Dany's stomach dropped. She laced her fingers together in an attempt to cease their twitching and stared down at her blood stained boots.

"I am sorry this is happening—"

Yara shot out of her chair abruptly. "He's dying because of you, you foolish cunt!" Dany winced, but she could not fault Yara for her anger. "If you had just kept your bloody dragons chained up, none of this would have happened!"

Fire flared within her. "You think they should be chained?!" She demanded. "Held like hostages—?"

"You've done it before!" Yara kicked the bed, and grimaced. "Just get out."

"Yara—"

" _Get out!_ "

Her own pride did not want to let her leave. It wanted to make her stay and fight back, but humanity trumped that; she knew that Yara was grieving. She knew that they had all lost so much tonight. Nodding, she stepped out.

Her heels echoed on the stone floor. Eyes hot with tears, she aimed for her own bedchambers, hoping to rest her sore muscles and sleep away her trauma. But then, behind her, there were hurried footsteps. For a moment she hoped it might be Yara, but she was proven wrong.

White Rat caught up to her. " _Your Grace!_ " He painted. " _You must come! Your dragons!_ "

Her heart stopped. _What?_ Quickly she followed him, bursting into a run. They rushed down the many steps on to the outer terrace and then descended the narrow passageway to the beach, where the rest of her forces — injured and otherwise — still remained gathered. Several ships were sinking, and more than a few were blackened.

But at least three-hundred were more than a thousand feet away, sailing west. Above them was a pale golden dragon. "What happened?!" Dany demanded, in the Common Tongue. She remembered that they could not understand her. " _What happened?! Where is Rhaegal?!_ "

" _Gone, my queen_ ," said White Rat. " _He flew away into the sky shortly after you left. Then the horn sounded again. There was a child, by the boats. A boy. Dozens of Unsullied dead, my queen. See?_ " He pointed, and there on the far shores, scattered over the rocks, were the bodies of dead Unsullied soldiers. They had spears in their chests and backs.

Dany did not understand. It had not even been an hour since she had gone to see Missandei. How had she not heard the commotion? The cries of the dead? She had burnt the horn! She had watched the flames consume it!

" _Why is no one going after them?!_ " Dany rounded on White Rat. " _Why are you all just standing around?_ "

" _Captain of ships is with her brother_ ," said White Rat, as though it were the most obvious thing. " _Another man tried to go after them, but the boat was burnt by the golden dragon. I am sorry, my queen._ "

Dany madly scanned the skies. There was no sight of Rhaegal, who had been high up. It would have been so easy for him to slip away. For all she knew, he was not truly gone, but merely hunting. He could have been out of earshot for the sounding of a horn which should not have existed. But of course it had been a fake. Of course Euron had taken advantage of her blindness and exposed her for the fool she was.

Drogon's dark shape stood out to the south. He was surely far enough away. There was at least that small comfort. But she did not have him. He could not hear her. Desperately she tried to come up with some sort of a plan. " _Rally the men!_ " She ordered of White Rat. " _Find Yara Greyjoy, and prepare the ships!_ "

There were so many still burning. Dany estimated that there were only around five-hundred left, and she had only twice as many men here on hand. Others were with the second fleet and the escapees. Her uninjured men stood and took up their arms once more. Dany reached the nearest ship and climbed up the ropes side, hastily, wincing with every movement inflicted upon her injured, bandaged hand.

 _I cannot keep doing this,_ she thought. _I just want to keep my children safe. What did I ever do to deserve to have them stolen from me?_

" _Pull up the anchor_ ," she ordered, running over the length of the deck to help the men haul the mass up the side. Two nearby ships were also pushing away from the shore with the help of spare hands below.

Soon they were sailing. Dany willed her ship to go as fast as it could. She preyed to every god she had ever heard of that they would just go faster. Inside she was breaking. An anger festered deep within the pits of her stomach. _If I look back I am lost._

She did not look back. Not even to see if Drogon was closer yet.

She was not sure how it happened. Perhaps it was wind. Perhaps the sea. But somehow they were gaining on the enemy fleet. Anticipation gripped her, and a thirst for revenge. "VISERON!" She screamed, once they were close enough. "VISERON, PLEASE!"

There was no indication that he had even heard her. In fact, with a flap of his wings he was higher up in the sky. "Please..."

And then she saw him. Euron Greyjoy was peering out at her from the hull of his ship, with a crooked bright grin on his face. Another horn was with him — this one sleek and black, made of onyx and encrusted with rubies. "Daenerys!" He called.

Her eyes were wide. "You were dead," she hissed. He of course did not hear her, but he knew that she had spoken.

"The Drowned God favours me," he repeated. She did not understand. He had been burnt, to a blackened crisp. She had seen his body as they set out...

"A decoy," she whispered, bitterly. The body had been a fake. Some act of foolish magic. And the boy... he must have been killed. All of this had been a game to him; an amusing fight. A show. She was so angry that her body trembled.

Their ships brushed one another. The one on Dany's starboard side was invaded with Greyjoy soldiers within seconds. The clamour of metal against metal rang out. Euron laughed. _How could this have happened? How could I have been so foolish as to believe he was gone?_

"Give me Viseron!" She screamed.

Euron did not laugh again. There was no more amusement in his expression. The ships rocked. Dany stumbled, trying to catch her footing. When she looked up again, Euron was on her deck. The Unsullied around her aimed their spears and gathered around her. Dany straightened. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking that she could not handle the sea.

It began to rain. "Give me my dragon!" Dany screamed, for what seemed like the thousandth time that day.

"It is my dragon, now, you bitch!" With an outraged roar he came charging at her. Dany's nearest guards flanked her, while the ones on the outer edges kneeled with their spears in hand. They would have impaled Euron, but suddenly he was gone.

There was calm, if only for a second. Calm and confusion. Viseron shrieked from the skies and twirled upward, seemingly oblivious — content with the fact that his mother had nearly been murdered...

And then Euron came crashing down on them. Her guards were flattened and scattered. Dany was thrown backward. Her head smacked against the deck. She groaned, vision doubled and skull throbbing. Her mouth stung, and she realised she had bit her tongue. Euron was fighting off her men, as were several of his own. She managed to half sit-up, spitting out blood.

" _Your Grace,_ " said White Rat, who was still with her at least. She shook his arm off, dazed. In the grey sky she could see a mass of white scales. Viseron was the smallest of his siblings, yes, but he was still large.

Where was Rhaegal? Drogon?

The cries of the dying filled her ears. Dany could not think. She could not comprehend. White Rat pulled her to her feet, but that hurt much more than her head ever could have. She wiped her mouth.

Euron stood alive, panting and drenched. One of her Unsullied remained alive, but he was grovelling with an axe stuck in his side. "It is time for the mother of dragons to die," said Euron.

He lunged. White Rat blocked his blow. Dany managed to scurry out of the way. She looked around for some sort of weapon to defend herself, but there were none that she could properly wield. All of the spears were snapped...

She took an end. _The great Daenerys Stormborn perishes with no more than a broken spear in hand,_ Dany thought bitterly. _What would Viserys say, if he could see me now?_

He would tell her that she was no dragon. That she was worthless, and pathetic, and that she deserved to die. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps she should just let this happen the way that it was meant to.

Viseron shrieked again. That anger twisted within her again. She gripped the spear more tightly, gathered her courage, and charged.

White Rat managed to twist away from Euron's thrust just in time to give Dany an opening. She tackled Euron, but they did not fall. He was much too built for that. His axe came at her chest, but she slipped away — nearly falling — and grabbed his wrist to stay the second blow.

But who was she to stop him? She was barley a presence. They both grunted. His arm twisted, and flew outward. Then it came around again. With a sharp crack she was flying away from him. Dany was thrown on to the side of the ship, but rail only came up to the middle of her thigh. She was wide eyed as she lost balance, and without any sense as she fell over the side.

The water came up to meet her, and with it there was a certain serenity.

* * *

Snow fell.

There was blood. There was snow and there was blood. White and red. He was sleeping, he had to be sleeping... Ghost nudged his side, but there was nothing. He howled. He whined. He burrowed his muzzle beneath his master's arm and cried without tears.

Snow fell, outside. A fallen Snow lay within.

There was water all around her. She could not breathe. Her hands pushed at nothing. Her legs would not work. Everything was so cold...

* * *

"Hello."

Dany started. Wildly she turned around, toward the sound of the man's voice. He leaned against a tree that some part of her knew did not exist. There was a sort of careless smile on his face which instantly endeared her to him. Dany could not quite place why.

They were in a field of flowers. Roses, poppies, daisies, and other kinds which Dany could not name. She knew only the wildflowers of Essos. All of these around her were so beautiful; things she had seen only in dreams and books. She ran her hand over the tips of the petals. They were softer than scales. "Who are you?"

"I am Robb," he replied.

"Stark," she finished for him. She did not understand how she knew, but he could be no one else. With his auburn hair and grey-blue eyes, she knew it to be true. "Where is your wolf?"

Robb pushed off of his tree. "I am surprised you know about Grey Wind," he told her, eyes squinting in the light of the sun. "I was under the impression that you were quite ignorant when it comes to my siblings and I."

Dany's brow furrowed. "And how would you know this?" After a sudden thought, she added, "Can you see me? From this... this Beyond? Is Viserys here? My mother?" How badly she wanted to see them, she realised; Viserys as he should have been and her mother even at all. A great longing took hold of her, and soon Dany's eyes were filled with tears.

Robb Stark softened. There was only the smallest patch of flowers between them. "I am afraid not," he said, true regret in his voice. "It is just you and I today."

She sobbed, though she did not want to. "Why?"

Then she was in his arms. He held her as she cried for the family that she had lost. Dany was comforted by the fact that none of this possibly could be real. This was not Robb Stark holding her, but rather Death himself. Even so, she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

"I know what it feels like," Robb told her. He sounded so sad. "To lose the people that you love. Your family. Even... Even when it was me dying, I was losing them. At least I had the hope that I would not see them for a very long time — but in moments of great grief, all have a tendency to be selfish. I just wanted to hold my sisters once more. To see Rickon smile or hear Bran laugh. I wanted to talk with Jon, again. Just one last time. I wanted to hug my father, to kiss my wife, to know my son."

At that, Dany met his eyes. "I wanted to know mine, as well," she whispered. "I never... I carried him in my womb for nine months, and then he was just gone. As though he had never existed." Her little Rhaego. He could have been the stallion to mount the world.

Robb pushed her hair from her shoulders. "I cannot let you be selfish, Daenerys," he said. "It is what I'm here for. To stop you from the temptations of the afterlife." He sucked in a sharp breath, gaze so distant she imagined she would never see its like again. "My father... he did not let Jon see anything. He did not want Jon to be tempted in the slightest, as we knew he would be."

Dany frowned. "And why not do the same for me?"

"You are different," Robb told her. "Strong in a way that he is not."

She shook her head. "I am weak," she told him. "I have lost everything. My home, my family, my best friend, my children..." she wiped away a tear.

Robb studied her, intently. After a moment, he said, "Not everything. Not all of your family."

Dany swallowed. "What do you mean?" Who could it be that he spoke of? Did he mean Drogon? Or Tyrion? Grey Worm?

"Jaehaerys Targaryen," Robb whispered. "I am breaking many a rule by divulging this truth, so you must be silent or I will not be able to finish in time. Trust that this is no falsehood, Daenerys." He took her hand. In that very short second, as he held her, she thought that if things had been very different she might have loved this man.

"Jon Snow is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen," he said. Her stomach quivered, but she did not speak. "They married in secret. The loved each other, but this is a rare truth. My brother... my cousin... he is just learning it for himself. I suspect he will not come to terms with it. He will need you to help him with that."

Dany frowned. "Why...?" Of course she knew why, and how, but she could not understand it even then. Jon Snow, the man she had agreed to marry, was her — her what? Nephew? Yes. Her nephew. But why had she not known before? Why was she only learning this now, after so many years of isolation? A sick, dark blackening coiled within her.

"I'm sorry," said Robb. He was fading away. "I cannot say any more."

She had never been more outraged. Never been more insulted. He knew this — he knew of Jaehaerys — and she did not. She had been told by an enemy. "Robb—"

* * *

He was gone. The sky above her was silken and grey; a broken blue. Rain fell on her already wet face. Her body shook with a great cold. Dany brought up an arm to shield herself, coughing. There was sand all over her body.

" _My queen_ ," said White Rat. He sounded positively joyous. " _You live._ "

 _Do I?_

Her mind was still racing from her dream. Or was it a dream? Had it perhaps been real? Had what Robb Stark told her been true? She could not hate him for it, nor could she hate Jon — Jaehaerys — if it was. But she could be angry. Foolishly, undoubtedly angry.

Dany pushed herself to her feet weakly. "What happened to Euron?" She croaked, scanning the waters for enemy ships.

"Gone," said a woman's voice. Dany turned, relieved to see Yara standing not far away. She was scowling. "I thought he was dead, but I was wrong."

Dany wiped her mouth. That only proceeded in dirtying her even more. "I am sorry," she said, feeling it. "I had no idea he would—"

"Without your dragons, you have no power," Yara snapped. "Why should I follow you? Why should I continue this alliance?"

Offended and outraged, Dany rounded on her. "Our men fought together," she said. "Side by side. I did not injure Theon. I did not destroy these ships or tempt fate. These men died because they believe in me, and you."

Yara scowled. "You're just as mad as Aerys," she hissed.

Dany drew back as though she had been slapped. "How _dare_ you?"

Scoffing, Yara threw her axe into the sand. "How dare I? Are you truly asking, Daenerys Targaryen?" Her lips curled downward with utter disgust. "You are no queen. You're just a foolish slut."

Dany did not mean to do it. She did not want to do it. But she did it. She struck her clear across the cheek. "I am your queen—"

"You are a queen," Yara retorted, not the slightest bit phased. "And a shit one at that! Cersei Lannister would be better than you!"

Dany shook her head in disbelief. Twice today she had confronted this woman's uncle. Twice she had lost her dragons. Twice she had rallied her men. Twice she had failed, and she was half-convinced that she might have died once, as well. But this was the worst hurt, somehow. To lose yet another person.

"Take your ships then, Yara," she said, not letting that hurt into her voice. "Take them, and go."

* * *

Varys was waiting for her in her bedchamber. She stared at him, still bruised and battered and broken, and she found that the only thing she could think of was Jaehaerys Targaryen. Varys was the master of whisperers — secrets flew to him like bees to honey. "Did you know?"

The spider cocked the area where is eyebrow might have been, were he not a eunuch. "That Euron Greyjoy would attack?" He asked. "No, I am afraid not, but might I just mention what a gruesome scene that was. Did you truly fall from a ship?"

Dany disregarded his inquiry. Her heart slammed against her chest as she stared at him, the way she had stared at so many of her enemies. Emotionless and yet within crippled, excluded, naive and furious. "Did you know about Jaehaerys?"

Immediately Varys paled. Perhaps he had been concerned before, but now he was terrified. "Who told you of him? Euron?"

Rage filled her. With this white hot blindness she found herself grabbing the nearest thing — a ceramic jug of water — and threw it at him. "Why did you not say?!" She demanded. "If you knew, why did you not tell me?!"

Varys winced as the jug shattered against the wall behind him. " _Did Euron tell you of him?_ "

"No!" She was crying, now. Fists balled and screaming like some petulant child. Like Viserys. "No! I saw it when I fell! I saw him, and the man who called himself his brother! Robb Stark told me..." she sucked in a shuddering breath. "You think I am mad, do you not?"

Varys was silent for a long time. "The Targaryens often had many visions," he told her at last, coming closer. "It was said, by some, that they possessed the gift of prophecy. Some called it a blessing from the gods. I do not find it abnormal that you would have this gift as well."

For whatever reason, this comforted her just slightly. Even sane members of her house had seen things. She wiped her tears. "How long have you known?"

"Close to a year," Varys replied.

She wanted to throw another vase. "And you kept this secret to yourself? _Why?_ " Why indeed. It seemed to be one of the only questions on her mind, of late. Why had she been born? Why had she been thrust into a world of hatred and shame and judgement? Why had she been chosen for this life? Why had Viserys not been a better brother? Why had her mother died birthing her? Why had her father been mad? _Why? Why? Why?_

"It was a necessary precaution—"

" _Necessary?!_ " She demanded. "Do you think I would have waited to depart this long if I had know that I had a family, still? Do you think I—" she bit down on her lip to keep from sobbing. Her chin wobbled. Dany leaned against the table in the centre of her room and slowly lowered herself to the ground.

 _So much has happened today. Too much._

"He does not know," Varys said.

"Yes he does," Dany managed to reply. "Robb told me." She recalled his earnest face to memory. He had been so young when he died — younger even than Viserys.

Varys sighed. "What do you want to do, then? Kill me? Kill _him_?"

"No!" She snapped. For she did not want him dead. Either of them. Truly she did not. He was the last of her blood remaining to her. The last Targaryen aside from herself. But what if... "What if he challenges my claim?" If he did, it would not be much of a battle; he was Rhaegar's son, where she was his sister; a man, where she was a woman. He knew Westeros in a way that she did not, and had a reputation of being honourable whereas she was... Feared? Respected?

"You have dragons," Varys reminded her.

"One dragon," Dany replied bitterly. "One was stolen, and the other is missing." At least Euron had not taken Rhaegal. There was that.

Abruptly she laughed. Dany had never held on to such meagre comforts before. So thin, they were; like string ready to snap. It was truly pathetic. She covered her eyes with her hands, shaking. Jon Snow was a Targaryen. Euron had taken her dragons. Missandei was dead. Yara had deflected. Theon was injured. Her fleet was half-gone and her men half-dead.

She needed help. And she was not going to get it by matching straight into the capital to steal back her dragon.

But oh, how she wanted to.

"I have to go to him," she told Varys, sobering. "I have to go north and secure this foolish alliance."

Varys lowered himself beside her. She realised that she was tucked underneath the table. Once, when she had been small, Viserys had indulged her and they had played monsters-and-maidens together. She had been so frightened when he had grabbed her from behind and made his scary monster face that she screamed.

Varys was no monster. A spider, true, but not a monster. "Will you marry him?" He asked.

Dany sniffed. "I do not know," she confessed. "I no longer want to. He is my family. Why should I have to marry him to earn his loyalty?"

Varys shrugged slightly. His silks rose and fell. "I do not know him," he told her. "I cannot speak for him. But I _did_ know Ned Stark. He was a man of honour—"

Dany scoffed. "Now you are just telling me the same things that everyone else has," she snapped. "Just because Ned Stark was a man of honour, does not mean Jon Snow will be. My father was mad. Am I?"

But Robb Stark had not been dishonourable, had he? She had seen him. She had embraced him, and he had done the same to her. If Robb was good, why not Jon? Why not the rest of them?

What was the worst Jon Snow could be, anyway? She would not allow him to abuse her, nor would she allow him to use her. And she did not think that he would dare do any of those things, either, given his reputation. Many said that he was the best swordsman in all of Westeros. They said that he was honest and true.

They also said he had betrayed the vows of the Night's Watch. A man of honour did not do that. Could this perhaps be part of some grand scheme to fool her into believing she could trust him, so as to murder her? Was Robb still fighting his war, even after having been dead for so long?

And yet she knew him to be good. She had seen that. She had felt it. She had heard it. He was good in a way that she had never known anyone to be. Dany sighed. "Please, leave me," she said. "I must think."

* * *

Later, after Varys had gone, she stripped off her leathers and crawled into bed. In her dreams, she saw two young boys chasing one another around a pale white tree, laughing without end.

She slept for two days. When she woke, she prepared herself a bath and soaked. Dany scrubbed away the dirt and grime from her skin, leaving it a raw pink when she was finished. After that, she twisted her hair into a simple style without the extra hands to help her braid. She wore it the way she had when she'd first met Drogo; down, aside from two pieces along the crown of her head.

It had been so long since she had but such little effort into her appearance.

She did not have a true council to convene. Only Varys and White Rat. Instead she roamed the halls; visiting the beds of the injured and the dead, and thanking her men. It was the first time she had done such a thing.

Missandei was buried in a secluded garden behind the castle, under a peach tree. Dany laid stones over her grave, but she did not cry. She wore black to commiserate for her dear scribe.

It was easy to slip into a state of nothing-ness. Inside she was a ruin, but she did not want to feel that, yet. She did not want to remember what she had learned. She did not want to acknowledge it as the truth.

Yara Greyjoy confronted her in the small dining hall. The woman wore the same leathers she had the day before. Her hair was unclean and there were shadows under her eyes. "You have not been so see my brother."

Dany laced her fingers together. "Has he improved?"

"Some," Yara replied. "The maester says he will not wake for some time."

Dany swallowed. "You have not left yet," she pointed out. "Do you mean to stay until after he is well?"

At that, to her surprise, Yara smiled. "I was wrong in what I said," she told Dany. "You and I... We are fighting for the same cause. I should not have blamed you. It was foolish of me. I will not be leaving, Daenerys."

"And... you are not angry?"

Yara shook her head. "No," she said. "Not anymore. Are you?"

Dany swallowed. "No."

Yara held out her hand, and Dany knew that it was an offer of peace. "Then come with me to see my brother."

* * *

 **AN: This is catching up with me. Currently working on a chapter ahead, but it's not THAT far ahead, which is worrying. Anyway, review - tell me what you thought.**

 **(Shameless plugging ahead) Also, if any of you are HP fans, seriously, go check out my story _Complexus Amore_ ; it's hardly been getting attention and feels suitably neglected. Love you all! **


	15. Chapter 15

FOURTEEN; Tyrion

The wood was old, and covered in dust from the fresh beams which had been used to replace what had been burnt away. Above that, the walls were of ashlar; the stones so worked and smooth they looked as though they had stood for thousands of years. They were coated in a thin layer of frost, from the wetness that had appeared the night before and froze over in the absence of the sun and warmth.

Tyrion sat in his bedchamber, reading, with the shutters drawn and a candle burning at his bedside. The atmosphere was homely; a sort of home which Tyrion had truly never known. In his childhood years he had been tormented and exiled — cast away like yesterday's linens — and had spent his adult years yearning for a place in which he belonged. But King's Landing was no home to him, nor was Casterly Rock.

It was so very odd to feel comfortable in this keep, which was by no means his own. So unfamiliar. _Seven hells, I have nested myself with the former enemy to wait out the winter._ He tapped the edge of his page and went on reading, trying very hard to concentrate on the words but failing entirely.

He was spared from his own personal shame when he heard knocking. "Enter," Tyrion called, gladly setting the tome aside to read at another time.

Sansa slipped in, and behind her there was the gangly, tall, un-beastly Brienne. The woman was far from an enigma to him; having been isolated for his height and appearance his entire life, he understood fully how she must feel. Even so, she was comely in the least; hair near as blonde as his own and a spray of freckles across her nose. And a true warrior, as well, which was where real beauty came into play.

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion greeted. "How have you been fairing of late?" He had not spoken to her fully in a good three days, since Jon had departed for the Riverlands. His lady wife had chosen to keep to herself rather than socialise with him, which Tyrion had been fine with, though it was extremely odd not to have anyone to talk to.

Tyrion much liked talking.

Sansa laced her fingers together. "I want you to call off this marriage," she told him, rather plainly.

His stomach turned, and the breath left his lungs in a great white puff of air. _She cannot mean it._ "Sansa," he said. "I have already sent out the raven. Nothing can be done."

She rolled her eyes. "Do not taken me for a fool, Tyrion," she said harshly. "I know that this is not safe. I know that she will hurt us, just as everyone else did. There is no use in introducing yet another threat to my family. I will not have what remains of House Stark burnt and buried." Her mouth contorted with distaste.

Tyrion struggled for words. "My lady — Sansa — I have assured you that she is very much sane—"

"So was Aerys, when he was young," Sansa protested quietly, though her voice held a deadly edge. She came over and sat beside him on the bed, which gave Brienne room to slip inside and close the door. The tall woman stood like a sentry, staring at the candle resolutely. "Everyone said he was charming, and kind, and wonderful. And then he went mad."

"That is not the case, this time," Tyrion told her, though suddenly and unbidden doubts began to creep their way from the recesses of his mind. _It is true, what she says. And think of the Masters. The Khals that she burnt alive._ But that had been with good reason. "I promise you, Sansa—"

"Many people have made me promises in the past, and each time, in some way, they were broken." Sansa shot to her feet and began to pace. "I have lost everyone that I ever cared about to my enemies. I cannot bring another one into my home."

"Is this truly about your home, or is it your claim you are concerned with?"

Sansa blinked, and he realised how foolish he had been. How badly he wished he could take the words back. But they had been said. "What are you talking about?"

 _Oh well. What's done is done_. "At the first council meeting I attended, Sansa, your first question about Daenerys's alliance with you was whether or not she would contest your claim. That, oddly enough, does not strike me as a person whose first priority is the wellbeing of her family or the welfare of her home."

Brienne kicked off the door and opened her mouth to protest, cheeks flushed with red, but Sansa stayed her with a hand. He watched her swallow. "How... how can you say such a thing to me? How dare you insult me in such a way?"

"Sansa—"

"I did what I had to do for _my family_ ," she snapped, cold blue eyes ablaze with winter. Tyrion was truly frightened, then. And heavily concerned. "I sacrificed all that I had. I was raped, and beaten, and used, and lied to. Everything I have ever done is preformed with the singular goal of... of..."

"Of getting back what you lost," Tyrion finished for her, softly. "Of regaining a position. Of helping your home, no doubt," he smiled, but she did not. "There is no fault in it—"

"This was not some act of selfishness!" Sansa yelled. "I did not even ask for a title, but I was given one anyway, because I deserved it! I saved the north! I brought Littlefinger's men here! Without me, we would all be long dead!"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, considering. His mind was racing and utterly perplexed. "And how much effort did it take to gain Lord Baelish's loyalty? His men?"

Her eyelids fluttered. "I sent him a raven, and he came."

" _Precisely_ ," Tyrion said. "You sent a raven to a man who does naught more than lust after you, and prior to that, your mother. Of course he would come. What great sacrifice is it that you made to do that?"

Sansa's face was drained of blood. "You do not get to speak this way to me," she hissed, tearful. "You do not get to say these things. Not after what you've done."

"And what have I done?"

"You allied yourself with the enemy!" Sansa screamed. "You fled to Daenerys Targaryen, of all people!"

"And what did you do, Sansa?" Tyrion inquired, guarding his own anger for another time. He had a point to reach. "What is Littlefinger, if not an enemy?"

Sansa shook her head. "He isn't... he never truly did anything. It is true, he sold me to the Boltons, and for that I will never forgive him; but I do not think he knew the full extent of Ramsay's madness. His actions were unintentional—"

"Betraying your father to Cersei Lannister was _unintentional_? Holding a knife to the neck of Ned Stark was _not_ an act of betrayal?"

He could see what he had done to her in that moment, before she sheltered her face to him. He could see her fear, and her outrage. The way her firsts curled and her chest heaved. She had not known, then. Tyrion had suspected such — or rather, that Baelish had told her and constructed some clever lie to conceal the truth.

"What are you talking about?" Sansa breathed. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion slipped off of the bed and made his way over to his nighttable. He lit another few candles, for the first was burning low. "In your father's few months as Hand of the King, Lord Baelish became sort of a confidant to him. He concealed your mother in his whorehouse when she came to visit King's Landing, after your brother Bran had woken from his coma—"

"My mother _never_ came to King's Landing!"

Tyrion closed his eyes momentarily. "Yes, she did," he said firmly. "Lady Catleyn told me herself, when I was her captive. She came inquiring about the dagger that had been used against your little brother. But that is not the point," he added quickly, in an attempt to avoid yet another reason for her to mistrust him, "the point is that the day Robert Baratheon died, your father confronted Joffrey and Cersei in the throne room. You know this, of course?"

Sansa nodded, phased. "I was locked in my room for days," she told him. "They wouldn't let me out."

Tyrion nodded. "Your father had made an alliance with the City Watch; they would aid him in overthrowing Joffery, for at the time he was heavily suspected of being a bastard born of incest — which is utterly true, if I may add. Lord Stark did not intend for any harm to come to them, I am sure." He paused. "Your father had been appointed regent on Robert's deathbed. His actions were more than within his rights... But it all fell to hell when the City Watch betrayed him. For the right price, of course. But Janos Slynt was always easily bought off."

Sansa closed her eyes. "Petyr paid them, then?"

"He did," Tyrion said. "And he held the suspected dagger to your father's throat. If he had not done that... I imagine you might be basking in the suns of the south right now, ignoring your Regent Father's warnings of the arrival of winter, with your brothers and sister at your side."

Sansa bit down into her lip. "How do I know I can believe you?"

"What reason do I have to lie?"

She watched him for another moment. "That's what Lord Baelish always says when I ask him that," she replied bitterly. Tyrion grimaced. _Bad enough that I must tell her this, than give her another reason to mistrust me because of that scheming worm_. "I don't understand why I was not informed of this before. Surely there were other witnesses?"

"Sandor Clegane being one," Tyrion told her dryly. _Of course, he told you nothing of it. Why would he?_

"I killed that man," Brienne said. Tyrion jumped, utterly startled, having forgotten that she was there. "In the Vale. His face was half-burned, was it not?"

"Yes," Tyrion said, frowning. Had this woman truly defeated a man such as Sandor Clegane, tall and trained as she was? The man was a brute.

Brienne nodded. "He was the man with your sister," she told Sansa. "When I told Arya about my vow to Lady Catelyn... I do not think she believed me. She didn't trust me, that's for sure. I tried to convince her, but the Hound intervened. It led to a battle, and I won, but the time he had fallen, Arya was gone."

Sansa pushed her hair from her face, though it was tied back and tamed already. "I cannot... I cannot handle this. All of this, at once. I must think."

"Take all of the time you need," Tyrion told her. "I will be here to talk when you are ready."

She nodded, shakily, and swept from the room with her woman-knight behind her. Tyrion sighed and returned to his book of Essosi religions.

* * *

At dawn the following morning, Tyrion decided that he deserved a drink of wine. It had not been an easy decision to come to; post much tossing and turning in the night, and severe meditation, he found himself waddling out of his chambers and toward the kitchens.

Sansa and Jon had ordered the servants not to serve him any directly. But a bit of sneaking about would not hurt him, nor anyone else. _It is passed time I truly quenched my thirst_ , he thought bitterly.

But as he sat at the little table in the dark kitchens with a jug of wine before him, he found that he could not pour himself any. His hands were simply not working. His fingers twitched, but nothing else moved.

"Damn this," Tyrion spat.

"I do not know what affect your damnation will have on that jug of Arbour Gold, my friend," said a voice. Littlefinger, of course.

Tyrion turned to him slowly, restraining his anger. He drummed his fingers on the wooden table. _I want more than anything — more than any amount of fucking wine — to strangle him in this moment._ "Why are you here?"

Littlefinger stepped closer. "I wanted to warn you of something," he said, lacing his fingers together. "My spies report that Daenerys Targaryen has taken up host at the Stepstones."

This was not news to Tyrion. "Yes," he said. "And?"

"And that Euron Greyjoy's armada set out from the shores of Blackwater Bay not three weeks ago. He has nearly a thousand ships, given that of the remaining Greyjoy fleet and the Lannister one as well. Word has it that Cersei Lannister ordered three-hundred of the finest ships ever made. The first was glorious, they say. It is called _Dragon Tamer_."

 _Oh, fuck me. And of course he would know this before I do. Gods, what I would do to have Varys at my side in this moment._ "And why should you care to tell me this, Lord Baelish? Feeling sudden remorse?"

"I know that Sansa came to your chambers last night," Littlefinger said. _Ah, and now we reach the heart of the matter_. "You hold valuable information in that great mind of yours... friend. I do not like the idea of it spilling out to un-wanting ears."

Tyrion did his best to hide his smirk. "It is too late for that, friend," he said. "Far too late, indeed."

"You told her that I had a hand in betraying her father?" Baelish demanded, stepping closer.

Tyrion poured himself a goblet of wine and stared at the golden liquid within his cup. He shifted. "Why are you still here?"

Baelish cocked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "I asked you a question—"

"I don't mean in this moment, as we stand here speaking of irrelevant things," Tyrion snapped. "I mean at Winterfell at all. Your men are encamped at Moat Cailin, your son is on his own at the Vale, and she does not want you. Why bother to stay? Are you so delusional?"

"I have no delusions," Baelish told him, smirking, "what Sansa and I have is real—"

"You have nothing," Tyrion informed him. "She avoids you. She does not speak to you. She is three times younger than you are and happens to look strikingly similar to her mother. More than that, though, she is smart. Smart enough to know that marrying you would be a mistake of drastic measures."

"You insult me."

"I speak the truth," Tyrion stated. He made for the goblet, itching, but did not drink. He merely held it, but somehow it did not feel as right as it always did. "You should leave, Lord Baelish."

"I think not," said the former master of coin. "Winter is here."

"And so your plan is to stay just long enough so that you are snowed in and have no way of escaping? You think she will take you, then?" Tyrion finally allowed himself a drink. It tasted too sweet. _How old minds grow feeble. How old habits grow fickle._ "I need not remind you, my lord, that we have dragons on our side? There will be no immobility in this winter."

Littlefinger smiled. It was a smile which held all of the secrets of the world. "You have dragons now, yes," he acquiesced, "but for how long?"

* * *

The answer to that question came little more than a fortnight later. Tyrion sat in the dining hall, eating beside his stony lady wife. She had barely said a word to him these past two weeks, and each one was offhand and reluctant.

He could see that he had damaged her, and how he so regretted it. But with the missive in hand, a part of him knew that amends would not be made for some time.

He unfurled it and read it. With each and every word, something within him began to snap. His heart was like that of a drum beat. "What is it?" Sansa asked, sensing his distress. She leaned over his shoulder and so Tyrion flinched away. "Tyrion?"

"I must speak with you alone," he said. _I have to tell her. If I keep this secret it will only grow worse._ "In your Father's solar."

Sansa gently set down her cutlery. "Tyrion," she said. "If that raven has anything to do with my brother—"

"Please," Tyrion said, rising, "just come."

He led the way, skin hot though the temperature in the air was far below freezing. When they were safely tucked away within Ned Stark's antechamber, Tyrion stopped. He did not bother to go into the true solar. "Daenerys's fleet has been attacked by Euron Greyjoy," he said. _Damn Littlefinger. I was so sure that he was playing me. Who is the bigger fool now?_

Sansa snatched the letter from him, wide-eyed. She read it over and then threw it into the ever-blazing fire. "You promised me that this was a safe alliance," she told him, voice shaking. "You said that there was nothing to worry about."

"How could I have foreseen this?!" Tyrion demanded. _If I had only sent some sort of a warning raven when Littlefinger told me... but no, it would have been too late_. "What was I to do?!"

"She no longer has dragons," Sansa said. "Clearly, she is not as strong as you so thought if they can be stolen from her by a Greyjoy. She is useless to us."

"Sansa—"

"The condition of the alliance was that she provide us with dragons," Sansa told him. Her face was flushed with anger. "She no longer has such beasts. I am calling this mummer's farce off now, before it is too late."

"You are making a mistake," Tyrion warned. _It's just one thing after the other with these women._ "Who is to say she will not get them back?"

Sansa stared at him for a long time. In one swift motion she sank to her knees so that they were nearly within height of each other. "My brother should not have to throw his life away for someone he does not love," she told him, sounding very sorrowful. "The woman he gave himself to was murdered, Tyrion. He has already lost too much, just as I have." Sansa bit her lip. "I cannot compromise our situation in this way."

"Sansa," Tyrion said, "I have promised you many a time that this is no gamble. Do you truly think that a man such as I would not know if two people were suited for one another?"

"This is not some play," Sansa said harshly. "This is politics. She had the dragons, we have the land. Now we have the land and she has no dragons. I will not throw the north away on some gamble."

 _She is committed to this._ "Very well," he said, and he meant it. "It is done. But if I may ask... what do you imagine will happen? Do you think that Daenerys will merely allow her children to be taken from her? Do you think she will go down without a fight?"

"No," Sansa said. "But I think that she will lose, and I will not ally myself with a person I have no faith in."

"Say that she does get them back, though," Tyrion offered. "Do you think she will let this slight stand? Do you think that she will let you and Jon and all of the rest live out your days in peace, when you opposed her? When you did not lend a hand at the time she needed one the most?"

"You mean to sway me by creating hypothetical scenarios?"

"I mean to make you see that if you do this, there _will_ be consequences, and you _will_ suffer them, whether you like it or not."

Sansa drew back and stood. "This is a waste of my time," she said.

"This is a valuable lesson which you clearly have not learned."

"You are threatening me in my own home," Sansa pointed out loudly. "You have no basis for your beliefs. They are the hopes of a nomadic man!"

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. "You mean to rid yourself of me?"

"Perhaps I should!" She declared madly, "then I would not have a meandering dwarf spouting atrocities at my ankles!"

He almost laughed. Of all of the insults he had ever heard in his life, that was by far the most unique. Sansa sensed his mirth and let loose a noise of absolute frustration. He looked up and saw that she was smiling, too. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was uncalled for."

Tyrion allowed himself the smallest of chuckles. "Not entirely, I am afraid," he said. "Your mother would have been proud."

Sansa wrung her hands, pacing over the floors. "I can't recall what she looked like, any longer. Nor Arya, or Bran, or Father. But the things that I see most clearly in my mind are the faces of my enemies; Ramsay, Cersei, Jamie Lannister, Joffrey, Walder Frey... Even though some are dead I still cannot put my demons to rest. Already I have had to add Lord Baelish's name to that list. I do not want to make it any longer."

He nodded, for he understood, though it pained him that she blamed Jamie, too. "She will not betray you."

She rounded on him, though she was far from angry. Every inch of her face was etched in distress and indigence. "How can you be so sure? How can you trust _anyone_?"

"Not all people are bad," Tyrion said. "Not even the bad ones, truly. They have just forgotten what it means to be good, Sansa." _Have you forgotten? No, I doubt it. But I think I have._

"Fine," she breathed, after a good moment. "Fine, send a raven summoning her here. Say we will offer food and shelter, and use of our army."

Tyrion studied her. "She will reward you," he said.

"I know," confirmed his lady wife, walking over to the ewer. "You have not been drinking, have you?"

"I..." Tyrion cleared his throat. "I had _one cup,_ a while ago..."

Sansa turned, appearing very exasperated. "We need you sober, Tyrion," she scolded. "Normally, I think it would be fine for you to have a cup or two every now and then... But with an addiction such as your own I do not think it wise."

Tyrion scoffed. "I have no _addiction_ —"

" _Tyrion_ ," Sansa admonished. She handed him the chalice of water and poured another for herself. "I am sorry if I have offended you," she said. "It is not my intention. I merely... I worry for your wellbeing, Tyrion. You are quite... short in stature, after all. It cannot be good to drink so much."

He found himself laughing over the rim of the chalice. "Your concern is flattering," he said. "I promise I will cease my drinking. Does it ease your woes?"

"Not truly," she said. "Tyrion... I do not know what to do about Littlefinger. I need his men, but I cannot stand to be around him. He keeps approaching me, and normally I could handle it fine, but I want to hurt him so badly. I want him to feel my pain."

Tyrion nodded. "I can understand," he said. "Truly, I can."

Sansa nodded, worrying her fingers. "My brother Bran lives," she breathed, eyes wide in horror. "I received a raven not two weeks before from the Lord Commander at the Wall. I didn't tell Jon, because of all of this. I planned to bring him home after the threats of Littlefinger and Daenerys had gone away, but they remain still. I wrote to him, and he wrote to me. He said that he cannot come south, anyway. But I... _I did not tell Jon,_ Tyrion. Again. I keep concealing truths from him and it is burning a hole in my heart."

Tyrion reached forward and took her hand. "We will visit him together," he said. "All of us, once this is over. I will help you tell Jon, I promise."

Sansa's chin quivered. "I murdered Ramsay, you know," she said.

Tyrion's head shot up. _What did I do, to let her feel this hurt? And yet what could I have done?_ "No, I didn't know that."

"I set his hounds on him," Sansa said. "Watched them devour him. I listened and I smiled, because he deserved it."

"I am sure he did," Tyrion said. He was not, though, sure that it had been worth it to crush her innocence. Had he been worth her becoming a murderer?

"Am I a monster, Tyrion?"

"No," he said. "You're..." _I have a special place in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things._ "You are broken, Sansa. But you are not a monster."

"I don't want to be either."

At that, he smiled. "We do not chose our paths in life, my lady," he said. "But nonetheless walking down them shapes us in to the people we become."

* * *

 **AN: By far one of my favourite chapters, and I don't know why. It's just a lot of talking, and I love dialogue (and Tyrion). Also - if you're going to write a review with a bunch of concerns and questions, please, for the love of God, don't do it under guest. Make an account so that I can further address these concerns and perhaps ease your worry.**

 **I hate doing this, but this is a response to Guest Tim:** **Robb did come out of the blue, but it was a vision, and those things usually aren't planned. No, a marriage is not the best way to create an alliance with Jon. The best way to do it is really just to prove a mutual trust and respect. But then, Dany doesn't know Jon, and therefore is unaware of this fact. Even so, I would imagine anyone would have a few qualms about marrying their nephew, mate. It doesn't matter if she doesn't know him. They're blood, and that is literally all that matters here. She can use that to her advantage (by eliminating the disadvantages of the fact; I.e, inheritance rights - but let's not get into that, right now). No, she's not holding out for Ghost Robb (unlike myself *laughs bitterly*). AND SANSA'S FEELINGS ARE COMPLETELY 100% PLATONIC.**

 **Let's make this clear for all of you, not just Tim, okay? Seriously. They are platonic. What seems to have been forgotten here is that Sansa has been betrayed like a million times, the only family (THE ONLY FAMILY) she has left, that she knows is living (we do not count Bran here because she can't be certain from a _letter_ ) is ABOUT TO MAKE AN ALLIANCE WITH A DRAGON-WEILDING, RENOWNED TARGARYEN. There are rumours about her sanity. Valid concerns. I would be concerned, wouldn't you? She doesn't want to _lose_ him. She _loves_ him. In a completely platonic way. Even if it wasn't a marriage alliance, she would still be quietly flipping out. She has trust issues, she's alone, and, let's be honest, she's a tiny bit concerned about her status as queen. But hey, YOU wouldn't want to be debunked after all the shit it took to get the title in the first place, either, right? **

**It's not a stretch, it's not unrealistic, it's just how the Starks work.**

 **Anyway. I love you all (yes, Tim, I love you too - I'm not mad, or impatient, I value your take). Every review is always lovely and interesting to read, and I want you to keep on with them - but if you have something to say, odds are, I will have something to say back, and I REALLY don't want to do this again, so log in or make an account.**

 **Byeeee!**


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